


Returned

by dmnutv_archer



Category: Assassin’s Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmnutv_archer/pseuds/dmnutv_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Title:** Returned (part 1 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** Assassin’s Creed  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 2,000 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.

 **Returned** – part one

  
Numb, frozen behind his desk and feet rooted to the tile floor, Malik stared at the blanket wrapped burden lying limp in the hooded novice’s arms. The second man, a local surgeon of great repute, awaited Malik’s response.

But there were no words. No feelings. Nothing but disbelief.

He shook his head, slowly. “No...”

“Dai. Please. The opium will not last much longer. We must get him settled before I can attend to him.”

The surgeon’s plea crept through the haze of denial. But Malik still refused believe. He stepped out from behind the barrier of his desk. The black blanket shrouded all but the motionless body’s face. Even there, in the exposed skin and tangle of dark hair, Malik saw only death.

 _This cannot be..._

“Kadar...?” he whispered. Ink stained fingertips of his right hand, his only hand, touched his brother’s cheek. Rested over skin bruised and bloodless. Malik squeezed closed his eyes. “Kadar.”

“Your bed Dai. Immediately.” The surgeon’s voice, now demanding, forced him to open his eyes. He lifted his hand away from... _his brother?_

Then something awoke inside Malik. Grasping at that hint of steel discipline, of his former self, he shed off enough shock to move. In stunned silence he led the men into his bedchamber. While they waited, he arranged the scattered sleeping cushions neatly upon the floor. Then he backed away.

With exaggerated care the novice knelt and eased the unmoving body onto the cushions. He stood, dipped his head. “May your brother find peace Dai.”

The need for answers pressed through Malik’s mental disarray. “Where... How?” he wondered, aloud, to himself more than the waiting novice.

“With respect, the story is not mine to share.” Then the novice lifted his head. Only now did Malik see his eyes. There he found wretchedness and pity. In that single moment, dread ripped away the thread of hope stirring within Malik’s heart.

“Safety and peace, Dai,” the novice said, quietly.

He nodded, unable to find any voice to respond. Despite the fear of what awaited him there, he cast his attention to the bed.

There, the surgeon began lifting the blanket away. “Your brother has been given enough opium to render him unconscious for the journey here. I will do what I can now, but until he awakes we cannot know the full extent of his injuries.”

Confused, Malik’s mind ran in circles, stumbling over memories previously suppressed. To remember only inflamed his grief and his anger. And his hate for the man responsible. The anger and hate bled through, despite his intentions. Still, he was forced to set aside the past so he could perform his duties.

But standing there in his bedchamber, staring down at the body of his brother, the past washed through him. A torrent of unwanted pain brought the fate of that day forward to the present.

 _Solomon’s Temple. Kadar surrounded. Overwhelmed. Unable to defend. His body impaled on steel. Thrown backward to fall in a bloody heap. And the scream..._

Malik shuddered. The scream still haunted him. No force of will could ever bury _that_ memory. His brother’s final words. Not words. A shriek of agony, of life torn from flesh.

“But.” Malik’s own voice shook from the vicious recollection. Unwilling to expose his weakness to the surgeon, he drew a deep breath before continuing. “But he died. I saw him run through with a Templar sword.”

“Run through indeed,” the surgeon replied. He held a hand up and beckoned Malik closer. Malik took only two steps. That was close enough. The surgeon pointed at Kadar’s chest. “Here. See?” he said, while tracing the ragged scar. Malik saw the scar, and upon what little of his brother was exposed he also saw more. Fresh wounds. Bruises. Lacerations. A wide band of inflamed skin ringing Kadar’s neck.

The surgeon’s voice pierced the dark realization creeping into Malik’s mind. “The sword missed his heart. They healed him. Enough to...”

Anger flamed deep inside Malik. Any pretense of composure collapsed. “Enough to WHAT? What happened to him?!”

The surgeon kept his eyes upon the slow rise and fall of Kadar’s scarred chest. “Your brother was imprisoned when found. Months he was held by them.” He sighed, and finally looked up at Malik. “I need not tell you what they are capable of.”

Malik knew all too well. Still, in his heart he refused to believe. Until the surgeon folded the blanket back completely.

The fabric peeled from wounds still bleeding. Burns still oozing. Exposing wrists and ankles rubbed raw, matching the mark around Kadar’s neck. Revealing a once glorious assassin’s body now littered with bruises and cuts, and...

Malik swallowed, hard. He had seen worse in his life. But the bitter bile rising from his gut refused to settle. His head spun. He stumbled out into the walled courtyard, fell to his knees on the hard stone, and vomited. Then he collapsed.

The sun beating hard upon his back and the cool rising from the stone cobbles combined to drench him in cold sweat.

 _No Malik... That is shock. You are in shock._

But whatever he felt, it was nothing compared to what his brother would feel when the opiates wore off. Knowing this, Malik dragged himself upright to his knees. His head swam, his body trembled. He had to pull himself together and be there for his brother now. Because he had not been there for him then.

“No,” he whispered, refusing to acknowledge the guilt fraying at his conscience. This was not his fault, not his doing. Anger seeped through the shock and steadied him enough to stand. Before returning to his bedchamber he dipped his hand into the fountain and wetted his mouth. Anything to take away the bitter taste lingering there.

As Malik returned to the horror that awaited him inside, he growled, “Altaïr. For this I _will_ kill you.”

  
#

  
Above the din and disorder in the Jerusalem streets Altaïr paced the rooftops. Here he was part of the sky, overlooking the city. Here he felt powerful, in control, and most at ease. Usually. Not today.

The man sprawled face down in the courtyard below, beside a pool of vomit, denied him any such peace.

While the blazing sun beat upon Altaïr he considered the events of the past week and the consequences of those events.

His hand alone guided every decision from the moment an informant passed to him the possible whereabouts of an imprisoned assassin. The description of that assassin and the circumstances of his capture both seemed an eerie match to that of Kadar Al-Sayf. Further digging proved Altaïr’s instincts were likely correct. Kadar had not died at Solomon’s Temple, despite his brother’s eyewitness account of the murder.

For Altaïr, following through on what he learned was challenge enough, not the least of which was concealing the entire mission from Malik. But what that information led him to find proved worse than any nightmare could conjure.

Despite the sun’s heat pouring over him, he shivered.

Now, looking down at the assassin’s bureau, the knowledge of what was occurring inside those walls tore at his conscience. The need to offer help battled against full awareness that his presence would only worsen a situation that could not possibly be any worse. Still, Malik deserved to know the truth. Not for himself, because no man should ever learn such horrors were committed against their brother. But because knowing might be the only way to lead Kadar back from that hell.

The surgeon had a difficult task. Though it tested his patience Altaïr knew it best to wait until he spoke with the man before seeing Malik. At the very least he would then better understand what hope Malik might have, or not, for his brother’s recovery. Only then would he inform Malik of all that occurred.

Once Altaïr and Malik had been friends. They were the same age and grew up training together. Perhaps some remnant of that tie still existed. But deep down he knew that was not so. Long before they entered Solomon’s Temple their friendship had eroded into rivalry. And afterwards something far more destructive.

Malik’s bitter sarcasm and anger edged into every interaction between them. In recent months Altaïr ignored his harsh tongue. After all, the man had lost both his brother and his arm. Such hostility was understandable. Altaïr expected nothing different from Malik now that he discovered Kadar alive and freed him.

Beneath his eroding armor of arrogant detachment Altaïr knew his past actions were inexcusable. The demotion to novice assassin was slowly forcing him to humility, and he was beginning to see the toll his actions took on others. He had successfully assassinated the first five of his nine targets, but only through being stripped of his Master’s status and carrying out his own investigations. Being demoted also forced him to respect the three tenants of the Creed. They existed for a reason. His willful behavior and outright defiance in Solomon’s Temple resulted in one assassin dead, or so he thought, and another maimed for life.

In returning Kadar to Malik he wiped the stain of guilt clean from his conscience. So he had hoped. Until only a few moments ago when, from his hidden vantage point overhead, he watched Malik, dazed, stumble out of the bureau, and vomit until he collapsed.

Altaïr continued his vigil. Only a few moments passed before Malik pushed himself to his knees, then stood. No surprise. The man possessed an iron will. Now that he dealt with the sudden shock, nothing would bar him from his brother’s side.

As Malik, seemingly energized, strode back into the bureau, he spoke aloud. The endless chatter of voices, human and animal, rising from the city streets drowned out the words. But even from afar Altaïr saw dark eyes narrowed, the harsh expression and the clenched fist. And he knew anger replaced the Dai’s shock. At least for that moment.

Once Malik witnessed the extent of his brother’s injuries, both body _and_ mind, he would face a flood of complex reactions and feelings. They would be similar, though more intense, to those Altaïr struggled with when he found Kadar chained, naked and broken.

The rescue was more than freeing a fellow assassin from Templar bonds. It had been personal, beyond even the discovery of an assassin thought killed due to Altaïr’s poor judgment. Kadar had always looked up to him. And in the months before they entered Solomon’s Temple, Altaïr secretly took advantage of that admiration and respect. More than once he found release in Kadar’s willing mouth. Though his interest never reached beyond those few furtive encounters, he genuinely liked Kadar. But that energetic, eager young assassin was gone. In his place a mindless, wretched shadow.

The brief recollection of the previous day sent a massive shudder through Altaïr. He had been fooling himself. Bringing Kadar home to Malik’s side did nothing to erase his culpability. But perhaps now they shared the guilt. Altaïr for getting them into the entire mess. And Malik for assuming his brother was dead and leaving him behind to die a thousand times over.

Malik might not realize it yet, but he needed Altaïr. And Kadar needed them both.

  



	2. Returned (part 2 of 16)

**Title:** Returned (part 2 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** Assassin’s Creed  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 2,200 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


 **Returned** – part two

Entering his small bedchamber, Malik seized control of the situation and quelled his errant emotions. Later he would allow himself to feel. Not yet. Not until the wounds were cleaned and sutured and bandaged, and not until Kadar rested at ease, with awareness enough to know he had found deliverance.

Though he had been gone but a short time in the courtyard, Malik found the surgeon already working. Opposite him, with Kadar’s battered body lying between them, the novice assassin threaded wool through spare needles.

Malik knelt. “Move,” he said, then shoved the novice aside. His expertise with wound treatment far surpassed any lowly novice. “I will assist.”

The surgeon continued suturing a lengthy cut across Kadar’s ribs. “I prefer aid from those with no ties to my patient.” He lifted his eyes from his task and glanced at Malik’s left arm. What remained of it.

The subtle insult, the unspoken questioning of his abilities, flooded Malik with shame and anger. But his brother’s body lying there between them shut down his gut reply. He pointed out the simple truth. “My hand bears more skill and experience than most men’s two.”

“As you wish Dai. But please allow the novice to stay. This might take all three of us.”

Malik drew a deep breath. Then another. Empty of all but the task at hand, he helped the surgeon piece his brother back together.

After they treated the worst wounds and burns on Kadar’s chest, Malik, with the novice’s help, gently rolled Kadar over. The tenuous control Malik kept over his emotions snapped. Burned into Kadar’s back, rising amidst the half healed scars and still bleeding cuts, was a cross. The Templar cross.

Malik jerked his hand away. “Dogs...” he hissed. Fury surged into his body, a wave of heat like fire rushing through his veins. Shaking, he held his palm over his brother’s vandalized back. “What have those filthy dogs done to you?”

Flecked with scabs and scarlet against Kadar’s brown skin, the contemptible brand had not yet fully healed. The enormous cross stretched from just below one shoulder across to the other, from the base of his neck to his waist.

The surgeon commented, “I have seen branding by them before, but nothing so large. He will bear it for life.”

“Of course he will!” snapped Malik. “Do you think me an idiot?” A single scratch could create a scar. Such an obviously planned and executed brand seared into skin would never disappear. That was the purpose. To mark a human as property. For life.

Forcing down his disgust, Malik leaned close to his brother’s ear. “You belong to no man Kadar.”

Then he noticed the marks on Kadar’s hips, tracking down to buttocks and thighs. Bruises, deep green and purple and black, some round, others long. Finger marks. Hand marks. And dried blood, flaking away from where it had been smeared. Evidence of abuse so vile, so reprehensible, a new wave of furious disbelief threatened Malik’s control. He gulped. He stared. Then a quiet, icy cold crept over the building rage, and chilled him to his soul. He bowed his head. “My brother... No...”

A faint moan rose from Kadar. Malik leaned closer. He listened for another sound, any sound proving his brother was more than this lifeless shell with only a heartbeat. Again Kadar moaned, still barely audible.

Malik glared up, awaiting the surgeon’s response. The surgeon nodded. “Yes, I know the opium is wearing off. Before I give him more, he needs water.”

Malik slid his hand beneath his brother’s head, fingers catching in the tangles of knotted hair, evidence of how long Kadar had been away. Gently, he cradled his head and tipped it upright enough so Kadar could swallow without choking. The surgeon dribbled water over lips cracked and bleeding. Immediately, Kadar responded. He opened his mouth, gulping down the precious droplets, moaning softly between swallows. But his eyes remained closed.

“Whenever he begins to awake, you must do the same. Then, before he becomes fully conscious, he must again sleep.” The surgeon reached into his bag and withdrew a soporific sponge, then dipped it into the water pot, activating the dried anesthetics. While holding the damp sponge lightly over Kadar’s nose, he continued, “He must remain asleep for several days, at least. That will give his wounds a chance to settle. I’ll leave you with extra sponges.”

Malik had plenty of soporific sponges there at the bureau. Patching up wounded assassins was one of his many responsibilities. This arrogant surgeon really thought him an inexperienced novice. But as he reflected on the surgeon’s words, he focused on the man’s true intent. And that angered him. “You mean to keep my brother drugged so I cannot see the depth of the damage done to his mind.”

“No Dai. The drugs will grant your brother some peace. You’ll need to find your own peace yourself.”

Malik hated the man’s condescending, disrespectful tone. But the words spoken stayed with him long after they finished tending to Kadar’s wounds.

Later, wrapped in the summer night’s velvet darkness, Malik sat alone on a cushion and watched his heavily drugged brother sleep like a dead man.

Peace? Was there such a feeling? No.

Kadar had survived. He was alive. But branded. Beaten. Tortured. Violated.

Months ago Malik thought he witnessed his brother slaughtered by a Templar blade. He lived with the grief. The emptiness. Bitter. Alone. Crippled, unable to fulfill his life as an assassin. He thought he had lost everything. Until now. While watching over his brother, miraculously returned, he truly understood loss and what it meant to hurt.

  
#

  
Altaïr wandered the streets, avoiding beggars and wasting time in a feeble attempt at staying away from the bureau. Nearly two days had passed since Kadar was returned to Malik. Earlier that morning the surgeon gave Altaïr a detailed description of the seemingly endless physical injuries Kadar had suffered. Despite the extent of the damage, no amputations were required, and no wounds threatened Kadar’s life. The surgeon believed Kadar would recover physically, possibly with some restriction of movement depending on how well he healed. Of Kadar’s mental state, the surgeon ventured no guess, and urged opium induced sleep for a few days at least. He reported that Malik seemed angry at the suggestion.

Apparently, despite his shock, Malik had been angry in general. Angry Malik. No surprise to Altaïr. How could the man be anything but angry once the shock of his brother’s survival wore off. Kadar had been treated like an animal. Worse.

Altaïr’s stomach tightened recalling the despicable cross seared into skin. Burns. Cuts. Bruises. Around wrists, ankles and neck, oozing raw marks left behind when he unlocked and cast away the iron shackles. And there were other, less overt signs of repeated torture. Kadar was catatonic when found, and remained physically and mentally unresponsive while Altaïr carried him away from that wretched place.

There in the chaotic streets, surrounded by the routine commotion of city life, Altaïr’s steps faltered. And he grappled with how any man could inflict such intense suffering upon another man. Kadar had not been alone in that underground prison. Some of de Sable’s men were more than cruel. They were merciless savages who brutalized innocents, even children, to satisfy sick, depraved needs Altaïr could not begin to fathom. Of course Kadar was no innocent. All assassins understood capture by the enemy meant ill treatment, followed by execution, was likely. But this...?

Altaïr clenched both hands into fists. Then he turned, and pushed his way through the crowded street, back toward the bureau. Enough waiting.

He slipped into the shadows of a narrow alley, then rapidly scaled the side of the corner building. Nimble steps carried him along the roofs, leaping from atop one building to the next until he landed just short of the bureau’s rooftop entrance. He paused, and looked down through the grate. Below, he saw no one. The surgeon had told him Kadar was settled in Malik’s bedchamber. Malik was either there at his brother’s side, or working at his desk.

Altaïr swung down into empty chamber and landed in silence. There he crouched. Seeing Malik now challenged him in ways he never before faced. He bowed his head and breathed deep. Exhaled. Breathed in. Exhaled. With one last, deep breath he straightened, then walked into the bureau’s workroom.

No Malik. Spread across the desk was a partially drawn map beside an open inkpot. A used quill rested on the parchment, ink beading from its sharp tip and onto the meticulously detailed map. Fastidious with his mapmaking, such a careless lapse was out of character for Malik. Clearly Kadar’s return had upended him enough that his work fell into instant irrelevance.

Though Altaïr had never been inside, he knew Malik’s personal bedchamber sat beyond the archway on the far side of the workroom. He took yet another calming breath. It seemed nothing could prepare him for this... Confrontation? He reached for the drape shielding the private room from view and lifted the heavy fabric back.

  
#

  
A single, soft footstep jarred Malik awake. Senses sharpened immediately. Someone stood in the shadows just outside the archway. Adrenaline swept away the foggy remnants of his brief rest. He slid his dagger from his belt and shot up from the cushion. Then he leapt over Kadar, placing himself between his unconscious brother and the intruder. Dagger raised, he guarded Kadar, ready to gut anyone who dared approach.

An assassin, head bowed respectfully and hood pulled low over his face, stepped into the bedchamber’s dim late afternoon light. Malik relaxed, slightly, but kept the dagger in hand. This intrusion upon his private tragedy he did not need. He had spent long hours dazed, struggling with the shock of his brother alive, there beside him, yet not. Throughout those hours he also cared for Kadar, giving him water when he began to wake, administering more opium, rolling him over to keep him from developing bedsores and to allow air flow to his many wounds. And tending to his hygiene needs as though he were a helpless infant. Malik was utterly exhausted. Aside from a few brief naps while at Kadar’s side, he had gone without sleep for nearly two days. But his duties could not remain neglected.

He slid the dagger back into his belt. “Wait for me in the workroom,” he said, his tone sharp.

The assassin pushed his hood back slightly, revealing his face. “Safety and peace, Malik.”

Altaïr. The very last man Malik wanted near his brother. Rage blasted through his exhaustion. Fury vied with the overwhelming instinct to protect Kadar. Raising the dagger in his clenched fist, he snarled, “Get out!”

Altaïr tipped his head toward where Kadar slept. “How is he?”

“Get out Altaïr!” Malik lunged forward, slashing the dagger from left to right in front of Altaïr’s face, keeping the tip just short of contact. Even through his fury he knew now was not the time for vengeance.

Altaïr did not flinch. Oddly serene despite having a dagger nearly cut across his face, he stared at Malik. And Malik felt those amber eyes bore into him.

Finally, Altaïr blinked. “I will go,” he said, calmly. “But first, please tell me how he is.”

The promise to leave blunted Malik’s rage. But Kadar’s condition was no one’s business. Certainly of no import to the man responsible. “You dare involve yourself?” he asked, even as he wondered how Altaïr knew about Kadar. The assassin had been out of the city for days, on some errand not of Malik’s concern.

Altaïr crossed his arms over his chest. “Involve myself? Who do you think returned him to you?” A statement, not a question, and said with more than a touch of arrogance in his tone.

Of course. Malik should have guessed. Who else but the great eagle could free a man from Templar imprisonment? But never would Malik acknowledge the truth. Doing so would only inflame the insufferable assassin’s already god-like ego.

Malik backed away, edging closer to the bed, worried his shouting might have disturbed Kadar. “A novice returned him to me. Not you.” He crouched down, then rested his palm over Kadar’s forehead. Some heat, but not a raging fever. Good. He exhaled. “Why did you not bring him to me yourself?”

“I thought it best to avoid your reunion.”

Again, Altaïr spoke with that self important, haughty tone Malik had always despised. “Spineless dog,” he shot back. “No courage. You couldn’t face me after what those wicked bastards did to him.”

“I faced you when we thought he was dead.”

Malik watched Kadar’s chest rise and fall, listened to the soft breaths, thankful for the opium that gave his brother peace. Quietly, he said, “This is worse than death Altaïr.”

After a moment he looked up. Altaïr had retreated to the archway, and stood with one hand gripping the drape. In the assassin’s steady gaze Malik found the faintest trace of the massive pain in his own heart. But Altaïr’s unease was not his concern. “I want to kill you for this.”

“I know,” Altaïr replied, barely above a whisper. He lifted the drape aside and disappeared from the bedchamber.

  



	3. Returned (part 3 of 16)

**Title:** Returned (part 3 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** Assassin’s Creed  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 1,000 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


  
 **Returned** – part three

  
Carrying a linen bag filled with provisions, Altaïr dropped down from the roof into the bureau. As expected, the workroom was empty. The desk remained as it had been the previous day; the same unfinished map spread out, smeared with ink, inkpot open, its contents now dried solid.

Despite the fury Malik radiated during that tumultuous first visit, Altaïr had returned. There had been something lurking, unspoken, behind Malik’s wall of anger. As Altaïr predicted, Malik struggled with Kadar’s return and all that it implied. Strong though he was, he could not manage alone. If the Grand Master learned Malik neglected his duties so he could care for his brother, Kadar would be recalled to Masyaf to recuperate, if recovery were even possible. Losing Kadar again would shatter Malik, completely.

While awake the previous night, staring out over the city, Altaïr committed himself to ensuring Malik would both perform his duties and tend to his brother, never letting one interfere with the other.

Malik would have to live with that, and with Altaïr being there.

It had sounded so simple; the resolution made in the darkness of the night. Altaïr now wavered as he recalled Malik’s violent reaction to his visit the previous day. But the suppressed pain Altaïr had sensed shadowing Malik pushed him forward. So did concern for Kadar. He slipped past the drape.

The bedchamber stank of illness, and worse. Nursing Kadar had obviously challenged Malik. From where Malik sat, half sprawled on a cushion, holding his brother’s limp hand, he glared, but did not rise. “Why have you come back?”

Altaïr set the linen sack on the small table, and approached the bed, slowly. Malik was half dressed, blood staining his white tunic, wrinkled trousers, feet bare. His black Dai’s robe lay tossed aside in a heap on the floor. Beneath his dark eyes circles like deep bruises betrayed his exhaustion.

“You look like hell Malik.”

“How pleasant. You came to insult me.” But fatigue removed the harsh edge from the tart comeback.

Altaïr lifted one shoulder, a half-hearted shrug. “Just telling the truth. And I came to help.”

“I don’t need you,” Malik shot back, then rested his brother’s hand on the blanket. He straightened while remaining seated on the cushion.

Altaïr began unpacking the provisions he had purchased that morning. A round of soft cheese, dates and dried figs, and freshly baked flatbread, though perhaps not as fresh now that the sun dropped toward the western horizon. These he arranged on a plate, then carried it across the small bedchamber and set it beside Malik. “Eat. Kadar needs you strong.”

Malik scowled at the plate as if every bit of food had been poisoned. “Condescending bastard,” he muttered, then popped a dried fig into his mouth. As if that small morsel reminded him of his hunger, he rapidly plowed through the entire plate.

Knowing Malik had not eaten since Kadar’s return, Altaïr watched, smug. But his attention kept wandering to Kadar, lying motionless on the cushions. Him being there, alive, yet so horribly abused, seemed too profound for Altaïr and Malik to speak of. Or even acknowledge to each other.

Cautiously, to avoid upsetting Malik, Altaïr dropped to one knee next to the bed. Without touching, he compared this Kadar to the man he carried out of the prison only a couple of days before. No change, aside from bandaged wounds and clean shaven. Malik had taken a blade to his face, but not his hair. That remained as it had been, a tangled mess, grown out and badly in need of cutting. Time enough later. Just then it was a relief to see Kadar resting comfortably. “He seems at ease,” Altaïr offered.

“At ease?” Malik grabbed a discarded soporific sponge from the floor and flung it at Altaïr. “You mean drugged into another existence. He breathes. He drinks during the brief moments he begins to rouse before I drug him again. Other than that, there’s no life.”

Altaïr wondered if Malik realized the depths of the damage done to Kadar’s mind. The drugs were not solely responsible for Kadar seeming lifeless. Never would he forget the vacant stare that met him inside the cell. Nor could he ever erase from his mind the depraved brutality being forced upon Kadar by two Templar guards. Their deaths at Altaïr’s hand came too swiftly. They deserved worse. “Malik. He was like that when I found him. He was...”

Malik’s eyes widened. “NO! DON’T! I don’t want to know!” he shouted, cutting off Altaïr’s words. He yanked his dagger from his belt. “Go! I don’t need you here!”

Altaïr felt a sharp pang in his chest. He recognized then that Malik knew enough, and could bear to hear no more. That Altaïr respected. But Malik needed to face one very difficult truth now.

“Do you want Kadar taken away from you and sent to Masyaf? Because that is what will happen if you neglect your work.”

Growling, Malik pointed the dagger at Altaïr. “I will kill any man who touches my brother.”

“Ah. But you won’t if Al Mualim gives the order.”

Malik tossed the dagger aside, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I despise you,” he said, sighing, and without malice. “But in this you are right. You wish to help? If that is what your guilty conscience requires of you, then so be it. But I will not speak with you. And stay away from my brother.”

His guilty conscience. Altaïr accepted the guilt. He functioned under its burden, and allowed those feelings to guide him now. But even as he bent down and gathered the cast off, filthy linens from the floor, he wondered if Malik had yet realized they shared the guilt between them.

  



	4. Returned (part 4 of 16)

**Title:** Returned (part 4 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** Assassin’s Creed  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 1,800 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  
 **Returned** – part four

  
Moonlight flowed through the narrow window arching overhead. Malik sat in the shadows beside his sleeping brother, away from the pale light falling into the far side of the bedchamber. There, despite the moon’s brightness upon his face, Altaïr slept soundly. He refused to leave, and insisted on sharing the vigil over Kadar. Malik rejected the offer, at first, but not for long. He was simply too exhausted. Though it defied his vow to allow no one near Kadar, he reasoned that Altaïr, of all men, could be trusted. Bringing Kadar home had earned him that trust. Maybe.

For three days the odd dance between them had continued. Altaïr helped. Malik accepted the help, but refused to speak to him. For Malik, it was a practical matter. Better to trust this man he knew than someone he did not. Not that he had anyone else willing to assist with nursing Kadar. And Altaïr certainly plunged into the most menial of tasks with stoic enthusiasm. Ironic what guilt could do to a man.

They rotated the hours at Kadar’s side, allowing time for Malik to accomplish the minimum amount of work needed to prevent any questions regarding his performance at the bureau. Altaïr continued his own work, though he never left the city and always returned to the bureau. He slept less than Malik.

Now it seemed fatigue had caught the assassin, felling him to the cushions. Good. Malik hoped he would stay asleep. Kadar had begun stirring moments before. No real consciousness. Just slight twitches, and faint moans. After giving him water, Malik decided to wait before administering more opium. The surgeon had visited that day and suggested they keep Kadar asleep, provided he continued consuming water and broth when semi-conscious between doses.

But Malik’s nerves had frayed to the point where he needed know how badly traumatized Kadar was left by his ordeal. And Malik refused to hear any details from Altaïr. This private truth was for Kadar to share. If he could.

Malik knelt on his cushion and leaned over. He slipped his hand around his brother’s. “Kadar,” he whispered, then tightened his fingers. “Can you hear me?”

Abruptly, Kadar woke up. His eyes flew open, wide. In the moonlit darkness Malik saw the terror in them. Kadar screamed. And screamed. He threw his arms out and kicked, thrashing under Malik’s hold. Despite weakness from days without real food, and the extensive injuries, Kadar fought hard. One armed, Malik was not strong enough to control him. Not with Kadar out of his mind, driven by fear.

Oblivious to the many wounds still healing, Malik jammed a knee down on his chest. “Kadar! Stop!! It’s me!!”

From across the bedchamber Altaïr dove, tumbling once, then landing beside Malik. He grabbed a soporific sponge and plunged it into the water pot while Malik fought to hold Kadar still.

But Kadar’s frenzied struggle intensified. He kicked both legs, twisted, tried to escape. “NO!!! NO!!!” he shouted, then screamed again.

“Hurry!” Malik yelled. “Get that on him NOW!”

Altaïr jerked Malik back, and thrust the damp sponge over Kadar’s face. He held it there, tight, while Kadar flung himself back and forth, the ragged screams now muted by the sponge.

“Shh... Kadar... Rest... Shh...” Altaïr murmured. “Shh...”

Slowly the drugs took effect. Too slowly for Malik, who fought his own battle now. He held his brother down, exhausted but for the violent waves of anger and sorrow rolling through his being.

Eventually Kadar quieted, his limbs fell slack, and he drifted back into unconsciousness. Malik dropped his head forward, resting it upon his brother’s chest. “I needed you know you are safe, away from those filthy dogs... You are free.”

A hand touched his back, gently, then lifted away. Malik raised his head, but turned his face from Altaïr. He swept his arm over his eyes. His tears meant nothing. But Kadar...

It was time to learn the truth. He took Kadar’s hand into his, holding it as if his brother would break. “Tell me everything Altaïr.”

“When I found him he didn’t recognize me.”

That quiet admission forced Malik to look at the assassin. “What?”

#

In the dim light of a single, sputtering torch fixed to the wall ten paces behind him, Altaïr crept through the underground passage. He slid one hand along the roughly hewn stone, searching for the next door. The last had opened to reveal an empty cell, swept clean. Before that, a series of larger chambers. Some empty. Some occupied. Those doors he left open. Not that the wretched souls chained inside could escape without aid.

Single-minded, he continued onward. Nothing, not even the sight of innocents, including children, held in the stinking depths of that hell, steered him from his mission.

Thanks to the information he had been given on the streets of Jerusalem, he knew where to find the hidden entrance to the underground Templar prison. Evading the guards and gaining entry, unseen, had been simple. In the early morning hours long before sunrise, a limited number of guards patrolled the prison. But the same informant who provided those details neglected to warn him of horrors he would discover there. Had Altaïr known the Templar were torturing innocents, he would not have left the novice assassin above ground, waiting for him. Another pair of hands meant the few of those held who appeared physically able to walk could have been freed while he searched for Kadar.

Too late.

Alone, Altaïr focused on the passage ahead. Then he caught voices, close. Muffled behind a door. Already the hidden blade was ready, extended while he was still above ground to prevent the faint hiss and click of its deployment from attracting attention.

He planned to free Kadar with minimal fighting, preferably none. Causing death among de Sable’s men would only stir the Templar Master’s wrath. Altaïr knew eventually the man would need to be eliminated. But not yet.

The voices continued, growing louder as his fingertips brushed from the stone wall onto wood. A door. And behind it, men’s voices. Not the pitiful pleas for freedom Altaïr had pushed away earlier. No.

Laughter. The violent thud of fist against flesh. Chains rattled. Then, a single word decipherable amidst the rapidly spoken French.

“...hashshashin...”

Altaïr froze.

More laughter. Silence. Then a long, low groan. Not of pain.

Altaïr seized the iron latch, lifted it, then wrenched the heavy door open.

Light poured from the cell, flooding the passage. Blinded briefly, Altaïr’s sight rapidly adjusted as he reached for a throwing knife. Shrouded in deadly silence, he leapt into the cell. The two guards staggered back, away from the unclothed man chained face down over a low, narrow table. One guard tripped, stumbling over trousers down around his ankles. Altaïr flung the knife into his heart, then jumped across the cell and thrust the hidden blade into the second guard’s neck. Growling, he twisted it, hard. The guard choked, gurgling blood, then fell silent.

Altaïr spun away from the two dead guards. The prisoner they had been using remained face down, chained there, motionless. Altaïr’s stomach knotted as he rapidly assessed the man’s condition.

Blood tracked down the man’s legs, evidence of the violent rape committed against him. A fresh cut, carved into his buttocks, seeped blood. On his back, a partially healed brand. A Templar cross. Revolted, Altaïr turned his head and spat. Did these men have no limits?

The bruises, fresh and angry, pale and faded; the cuts and burns covering the man’s body bore tragic witness to the terrible abuse he suffered. A blanket lay on the floor. Altaïr grabbed it, and draped it over the man, granting at least that small dignity. Still, the man did not move.

The rush of Altaïr’s kills ebbed, now replaced by dread. He took a deep breath, and dropped to one knee. Slowly, he reached out and took the man’s head into his hands. Then he turned it to the side. Blue eyes stared from a face bruised and gaunt and unshaven. Almost unrecognizable. Except for those eyes.

Altaïr gasped, “Kadar!”

Kadar stared at him. Through him. Aside from his eyes open, he showed no sign of consciousness.

“Kadar?” Altaïr prompted again. “Do you know me?” But the stare remained empty.

Exhaling, Altaïr slipped his hands away, leaving Kadar staring like a dead man. He expected physical damage, likely severe given how long Kadar had been kept alive. But not once did he account for extreme mental trauma leading to this catatonic state.

“Mercy... What have they done to you?” he wondered aloud.

But there was no time for answers. Altaïr shook off the horror. He quickly unlocked the shackles and slipped the cruel iron from Kadar’s wrists, ankles and neck. Left behind were red welts, bleeding in places. Again, his stomach clenched. But he defied his reaction, and focused on getting Kadar to safety. “We must go Kadar. Do you understand?”

The stare continued, empty, void of life.

“I will carry you,” he explained, despite knowing Kadar could not hear him.

He lifted the young assassin into his arms. Kadar was not a small man, and Altaïr was forced to shift the limp body over one shoulder, balancing the weight the best he could.

Then he bore Kadar away from that nightmare. While passing by the chamber doors he had earlier opened he grimaced, but did not slow.

Stealth proved his accomplice that night, and he soon carried Kadar out of the prison’s hidden exit and into the warm, night air.

#

“Then I drugged him. He’s been drugged from then until now.”

Recounting the tale in full left Altaïr cold, wrung of all feeling. How else could he live with what he had seen, and what he knew had been inflicted upon Kadar?

Malik sat still, head bowed, eyes closed. Against his chest he pressed his brother’s hand. “I should thank you Altaïr. But I cannot. You caused this. You are why he has suffered. You.” He placed Kadar’s hand down on the linen sheet. Then he slumped against the wall, head tilted back, eyes staring up, away from his brother. “And I.”

Those two words reached Altaïr, exposing more than he wished to know. Malik shared the responsibility, yes. But watching him devastated, ripped apart by the truth, Altaïr felt pity. And empathy so profound, so painful, he too slid to the floor, allowing the wall to support him.

The moon had swung low in the sky, away from the window, leaving the bedchamber dark. There Altaïr sat, propped against the wall opposite Malik. Each shrouded in their own emotions, separate, alone. A silent chasm of darkness like a vast river between them, spanned only by Kadar, resting in blessed unconsciousness.

  



	5. Returned (part 5 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 5 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 1,500 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


 **Returned** – part five

In a swirl of white Altaïr spun away. But the sword slashed across his thigh, through his tunic and his trousers, slicing deep into flesh. Pain like fire followed the steel. “Akh!” he cursed, stumbling. “Wretched dog!”

As the guard swept his sword to the side, prepared for a fatal cut, Altaïr thrust his own short blade up, deep into the man’s gut.

Trailing droplets of blood, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving dead another guard from the underground Templar prison. But this time his adversary proved a fighter with skills and agility surpassing most guards.

While dragging himself up the ladder leading to the bureau’s rooftop, Altaïr ground his teeth together. Pain meant nothing to him. His body tolerated that which felled most men. Then why were his hands trembling as they grasped the rungs?

Dizzy, he eventually hauled his shaking body into the roof. He stood in the strong, late afternoon sun, panting, hand clenched over the bloody gash in his leg. His vision wavered. Through the fog rapidly clouding his mind, he dredged up the last of his energy, and jumped down into the bureau. The landing drove spikes of pain through his leg. A scream tore from his throat.

“Altaïr?!” Malik yelled as he raced to Altaïr’s side. But the odd note of panic in his voice vanished as he loomed overhead. “Look at you.” Arching an eyebrow, he stared at the bloody wound. “Sloppy work assassin.”

Collapsed on the floor, chest heaving, Altaïr gasped, “Fuck. You. Malik.”

Malik glared down, hard, no doubt preparing a harsh retort. Instead, he flipped his hand as if dismissing Altaïr. “You are of no use to me in this condition.”

“Just do your job and stitch me up.”

Malik looped his arm beneath Altaïr’s shoulders. “And lose this opportunity to mock you for your failings?” he said, hauling Altaïr to his feet.

“Failings? Another prison guard dead.”

Steadied by Malik’s strength, Altaïr staggered through the workroom and into the bedchamber. In the far corner, where Altaïr usually slept, Malik abruptly yanked his arm away. Unable to support his own weight, Altaïr collapsed awkwardly on the cushions. He unbuckled his belt and pulled it off, then pushed it, along with his sword, away. But seeing how much blood he lost stopped him from shedding the remaining weapons.

He grabbed the already torn trouser leg and ripped the blood-soaked linen off completely. Revealed, the cut in his thigh ran diagonally from just above the inside of his knee, upwards and across to nearly the top of his leg.

Malik snorted. “Nice. Thank you. This will be some work.” He clamped a needle between his teeth and threaded it. Altaïr lay back and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. The flaking plaster between the wood beams overhead diverted his attention from watching Malik sew him up one handed.

He felt Malik wipe away the blood, cleaning the wound gently. “Death is too good for those filthy whoresons,” Malik said, finally acknowledging Altaïr had rid the city of another prison guard.

He shoved the threaded needle through Altaïr’s torn flesh, wielding the tiny piece of steel like a hidden blade.

“Yessss,” Altaïr hissed through clenched teeth. He too wished those men would suffer, punished long and hard for what they had done. But swift death was the only sentence Altaïr could carry out. To commit worse would only reduce him to their level. So he hunted them down and wiped them from the earth. Yet Altaïr knew no number of guards dead would ever rid the world of the evils he witnessed in that prison.

Malik continued passing the needle back and forth, gradually pulling the wound’s edges together. “Hmm. You’re clean, so I assume you visited the hammam before taking care of that guard. Did you also attend to your other task?”

Altaïr nodded. “I did.”

Kadar’s violent awakening had disturbed them, leaving both unable to sleep after. That morning Altaïr suggested he visit the surgeon to report what had happened, and discover if anything more could be done. Malik readily agreed, no doubt relieved Altaïr spared him another personal meeting with the surgeon. He did not appreciate the man’s high opinion of himself, though he understood Kadar’s care was best supervised by someone with experience in dealing with such severe injuries, both physical and mental.

After a much needed visit to the hammam, Altaïr met with the surgeon. He told of Kadar’s outburst. The surgeon showed no surprise, and explained that Kadar was dealing with the memories of his captivity, and was this was necessary. He suggested a change in medicines to better help Kadar at this point in his recovery.

From the inner pocket of his tunic Altaïr pulled a well padded pouch containing several small glass bottles. He tossed it into Malik’s lap. “Here. Hashish oil. We’re to switch Kadar to this while he slowly regains his mind. Give him just enough to ease his pain and help him sleep. It will lessen his violent outbursts.”

“Lessen?”

“It’s better than the opium blend for long term use. Milder. The surgeon also said Kadar needs to regain consciousness so he’ll be able to eat solid food. We’re to start him on this immediately.”

“Then that is what I will do,” Malik said, firmly.

Too firm, Altaïr thought. Malik had shown glimpses of just how deeply all this impacted him. But in the light of day, he swept those feelings away. Not that Altaïr could question that approach, given he too suppressed the emotions that raged beneath his cold, detached exterior. At least, he hoped that was the image he put forth. Lying there exhausted, badly cut due to a careless mistake, and having his leg stitched up he knew the image and the reality had parted ways. And he was too tired to care.

“Done.” Malik bent down, his lips nearly brushing Altaïr’s leg as he bit off the wool thread now holding the sword wound together. He sat up and reached for the water pot. “Drink,” he ordered.

Shaking, Altaïr took the offered cup. He gulped down the water. Then he fumbled with the leather straps of his back scabbard.

Malik shoved his hand away. “Let me do that.” One handed, he deftly released the sheath securing the short sword to Altaïr’s back. Then he unbuckled both vambraces and slipped them from Altaïr’s forearms. He laid them and the short sword with the belt and sword Altaïr had pushed aside earlier.

Relieved of his weapons, Altaïr fell back onto the cushions and closed his eyes. His head spun in slow, lazy circles.

“Rest. You look like hell.”

Altaïr felt his lips lift slightly.

“Don’t smirk at me assassin. Unlike you, I _know_ how bad I look.”

“Mmm,” he grunted. Then sleep took him and he knew no more.

  
#

  
Malik sat perched on his cushion, now watching over two patients. Altaïr required nothing more than rest, and a few days off his feet to allow the sutures to begin mending the vicious slash on his thigh. Shaking his head, Malik wondered how the agile assassin had slipped, allowing one of those inept, lumbering brutes to cut him.

The explanation was simple. Exhaustion. Altaïr had pushed himself beyond even his extreme limits. He spent too many sleepless nights caring for Kadar, followed by long days in the heat, gathering information and hunting down the guards from the Templar’s prison.

Such devotion was admirable, though Malik would only ever admit that to himself. But Altaïr’s actions were motivated by guilt. And his quest for redemption could only be fulfilled the day Kadar returned to himself, completely. If that day ever came.

Malik sighed. As much as Altaïr’s presence still infuriated him, he felt the same powerful need for redemption echoed in his own heart. Over and over again he relived that chaotic day in Solomon’s Temple, searching for some shred of blood-soaked memory that might have proven Kadar could have survived. He found nothing. Did it matter? He left his brother behind. How could he have _not_ known the sword spared Kadar’s life? He should have known. And every day Kadar remained locked away in some hellish dream world, Malik felt his own guilt intensify.

He found a small hope in the surgeon’s recommendation. Now there seemed a way to draw Kadar back into life, gently and without more disturbing outbursts like the one the previous night.

As the dim light of dusk faded and darkness spread through the bedchamber, Malik knelt at his brother’s side. “Kadar. Please come back. Please.”


	6. Returned (part 6 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 6 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 2,000 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


 **Returned** – part six

  
Altaïr hovered over him. Hooded. Cloaked in white. Edged in darkness.

Another man bent down, closer. Draped in black. Dark eyes. Dark hair. So much like Malik.

No. Malik was dead. They killed his brother. Dead. Dead.

A low keen rose from deep inside him, up into his throat, pressing against his mouth. He dragged his lips apart. “Nooo...”

The man in black leaned even closer, now nearly over him. “Kadar?”

A trick. Long ago they tortured his name from him, then used it when they pushed for answers. “N... Never... Won’t b... betray...” he mumbled, his mouth fighting to form words. Then he closed his eyes and waited.

Pain. Pain always came after he refused to betray the Brotherhood.

Pain. More pain. Always pain, whenever they came.

He waited. His limbs slack in their shackles. His abused body unable to tense in anticipation of the next brutal violation, the next knife slicing open his skin, the next white hot fire pressed into his back...

His skin hissed. He smelled his flesh burning. He screamed. But his voice sounded so far away. Somewhere else. Far away.

A hand rested on his cheek. Fingers cupped his chin. Gentle.

They were never gentle.

Something cold touched lightly against his lips. He clamped his jaw shut, hard. When did he regain the strength for that?

“Easy Kadar. Drink. This will relieve your pain.”

Even the voice was gentle. He opened his eyes. White flooded the darkness.

“Alt... Alt...?” he stuttered.

The hooded assassin nodded. Kadar parted his lips. He drank.

The man robed in black spoke. “You are safe Kadar. Safe.” He cringed, recoiling away from this man who was not his brother.

They killed Malik. Malik dead. Tortured, then killed.

Dead. Dead.

Kadar squeezed his eyes closed.

Dead. Malik was dead.

Blinding physical pain merged with the agony in his heart. His brother was dead. Dead.

And the vision of Altaïr only that. A cruel apparition conjured by hope long ago crushed.

Like he always did, in his mind he repeated the simple talisman that granted him escape from this hell.

 _I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead._

#

Altaïr knelt beside Malik, both awaiting another glimpse of life from Kadar.

But Kadar lay there, unmoving, his blue eyes still open, yet glazed over.

Malik sat back, exhaling hard through his lips in an exaggerated sigh. “It’s as if he’s dead. Eyes open but unseeing.”

It seemed Kadar had been there with them, not fully aware but awake enough to open his mouth and swallow the hashish oil when Altaïr prompted him to drink. Abruptly, all semblance of consciousness fled.

Altaïr had seen the same empty stare before. “He was like this when I found him. Awake, but completely withdrawn, as if hiding inside himself.”

Malik leapt upright, then stalked away across the bedchamber.

Mentally, Altaïr scolded himself for referring to Kadar’s condition when he found him. Malik did not need a reminder that his brother was being raped when Altaïr burst through that cell door. He rushed to offer some positive thoughts to counter his ill-timed remark. “That he was here with us even for so short a time bodes well.”

Standing with his back turned to the bedchamber, Malik kicked the wall, hard. “Why did he pull away from me?” He swung around, and glared, pointing at Altaïr. “But not from you?”

“Malik. I... Maybe...” He shut his mouth, acutely aware nothing he could say would help. Kadar had _cringed_ when he looked at Malik.

After a long moment, Malik walked back, then crouched down. He took his brother’s hand in his. “We both know how he worshipped you. But I am his brother. His blood. Why did he reject me?”

The subtle hint of sadness twined with desperation in Malik’s voice sounded completely out of character. Yet, Altaïr found himself touched by the unlikely admission of weakness. Perhaps Malik sought reassurance. Stretched by the difficult dance of words between them, Altaïr wanted to escape. Instead, the wound in his leg held him there, forcing him to reply. He abandoned any attempt at tact. “You look different. He’s been through a horrible trauma. Add to all that effects of the drugs? Maybe he didn’t recognize you.” Seeing Malik’s frown deepen, he quickly added, “Yet. Give him time.”

“Right. Time.”

He nodded toward Altaïr’s thigh. “How does it feel?”

Altaïr breathed deep, then exhaled, grateful for the sudden change in conversation. “I’ll live.”

“Hurts?” Malik asked, then handed him one of the glass bottles filled with hashish oil. “Try some of this. It will ease the pain, and relax you.”

Relax? Malik was wound so tightly, Altaïr was certain he would fly into a furious rage at the slightest provocation. Or even unprovoked. “Maybe you need some too,” he said, in earnest though he felt the oddest urge to smile. He never smiled.

Malik held another bottle steady between his knees and pulled the stopper. Then he raised it to his lips and gulped down a large swallow. “It works well. I know from experience.”

The blunt admission shocked Altaïr. “You take it?”

Malik waved the bottle at the stump that was once his left arm. “How do you think I’ve dealt with this?”

Altaïr held his breath. Was Malik actually referring to his amputation? He never spoke of losing his arm. Ever.

“Do you have any idea what true pain is Altaïr? Absolute mind crushing agony?”

Glancing down at his left hand, and the void where his finger once was, Altaïr remembered pain. He knew pain. Humbled by Malik’s loss, he shook his head. “No.”

“Of course you don’t,” Malik said, then took another swallow from the bottle. He braced it between his knees and shoved the stopper back in. “After I was taken off opium, hashish oil got me through the worst. Still does. I know it will help Kadar.”

For a brief moment, Altaïr wondered if Malik referred to more than the physical pain he and his brother endured. Because hidden there behind his words, the unspoken trauma to their minds both had suffered. Malik survived having his arm amputated, while grief stricken from the apparent death of his brother. And Kadar? Altaïr shuddered. Kadar might never recover his mind after what those vile, filthy dogs had done to him.

Malik jarred him out of those disturbing thoughts. “Take two drops. That should be enough, since you are unaccustomed to it.”

He pulled the stopper from the bottle, and followed Malik’s instructions. The heavy oil slipped easily down his throat. The taste lingered on his tongue, somewhat bitter, but not wholly unpleasant.

Malik slid the water pot toward him. “You’ll need this. Make sure you keep drinking. Don’t forget.”

The effects crept up on Altaïr gradually. At first he felt much like he had that afternoon when he returned to the bureau with his leg sliced open. A bit light-headed, and tired. But soon his senses shifted. The acute pain in his leg ebbed into a dull, distant ache. It felt as if the harsh edges of his surroundings, all that he saw, heard, touched, felt, now softened, blurred, faded. He sat there, relaxed, and savored the brief respite from reality.

  
“Altaïr?”

“Mmm?”

“You still with me?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“He’s closed his eyes.”

Altaïr looked down. It seemed now Kadar slept.

“Good. He needs peace Malik. May he find it.”

“He was dead. I saw him killed. I saw the blade drive through him. No man could have survived. I keep seeing it in my mind, over and over. Every time, he’s dead, bled out completely. Do you think I would have left him there if I thought he was alive?”

The Al-Sayf brothers were close, and one would not have left the other behind unless absolutely certain he was dead. The candid memory Malik shared disturbed Altaïr. He needed no reminder of what happened that day. But Malik’s tone was oddly void of anger. So he answered truthfully, “No Malik, never.”

“I should have known.”

“How?”

“He’s my brother.”

As if that created some kind of unspoken bond between them? Perhaps it did. Altaïr would not know. He had no blood brothers.

Malik sighed. “I failed him.”

 _We failed him._

But Altaïr retained that thought in his mind. No point in stirring up the animosity Malik still felt toward him. And just then, wrapped in the relaxing effects of the hashish oil, Altaïr pushed away all the negativity and regret. “He’s alive Malik. Your brother is alive. Is that not a miracle?”

“Is it?” Malik replied, then buried his face in his arm. In response, Altaïr rested a hand upon his shoulder. Malik tensed under his touch. Maybe it was the hashish oil, but he wanted to show Malik some empathy and support. He patted Malik’s back, lightly, and hoped the gesture would ease some of the tension. But Malik remained unmoved. Sighing, Altaïr lifted his hand away.

After a while, some extended time distorted by the drug, Malik finally turned to Altaïr. “When I believed him dead the anger and grief were mine, for me and all that I had lost. Anger and grief still haunt me every moment, whether I am awake or asleep. Only now they are for what he has suffered. For what I caused him to suffer.”

Altaïr felt an ache gather in his chest, sharpening into a violent pain. He looked down, eyes following the intricate pattern embroidered on Malik’s robe. White on black. He focused there, because he could not bear the heartfelt admission that had exposed Malik completely.

But he shared the blame. So Altaïr dredged up his strength from beneath the heavy weight of the hashish oil, and lifted his head. He found Malik’s dark eyes staring back. Then Malik clutched his brother’s hand to his heart. “How am I going to get him through this? How?”

 _I will be here for you. I will help you both._

Shocked by the unexpected thought, Altaïr stopped those perilous words from forming on his tongue. In their place, he said, “You are a strong man. You will be strong for him. Have faith.”

Malik snorted, almost a laugh. “Faith. Not sure what that means anymore. Not sure about anything. Lies. Truth. Anger. Hate. Death. Life. None of it makes sense. Nothing...” he trailed off, mumbling.

“Yes... Nothing...” Altaïr muttered. The hashish oil had rearranged his mind, and words floated away, unspoken. He let them go.

The night wore on. In drug-dazed silence they leaned against the wall beside each other, half sprawled on the cushions. Together they watched Kadar sleep peacefully.

Altaïr felt a light thud against him. Startled, he jerked his eyes open fully and looked down. In the faint light of the coming dawn he found Malik’s head rested on his shoulder.

He should have pulled away. But the long night and heavy dose of hashish oil conspired against his instinctive reaction.

Instead, he found a twisted sort of comfort in this bizarre end to the very revealing night. He dropped his head to the side, resting it against Malik’s. Then he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him.


	7. Returned (part 7 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 7 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 2,000 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  
 **Returned** – part seven

  
Malik tossed the stack of maps down. As they fell, air stirred across the desk, catching the neatly trimmed quill he had just prepared. It fluttered to the floor. Frustrated, he bent down, retrieved it, then slammed his head, hard, into the desk’s sharp corner. He ground his teeth together and halted the curse before it escaped into the silent morning.

Perfect. Now he would develop a brutal headache to go along with all his other problems.

Unable to sleep much past dawn, he had retreated to his workroom, and his maps. Here at least he could empty his mind. And empty was exactly what he needed.

Waking up with his head on Altaïr’s shoulder had completely upended him. How could he have been _that_ affected by the hashish oil? Months of taking it for his pain left him tolerant to its effects. The previous night he took only a small amount. Kadar’s condition prevented him from escaping fully into that hazy place where most of his pain receded. Had he dosed himself enough, he would not have been fully cognizant if Kadar awoke. So he was careful, taking only what he needed to dull the pain in his heart left after Kadar rejected him. Then why, _how_ did he lose control of himself?

Falling asleep against Altaïr was horror enough. Worse, the words his traitorous mouth spoke to the assassin.

Leaning over his desk, he relived the night before. How stupid he had been, confiding in Altaïr. Sharing his deepest feelings and fears. Stupid. Exposing his weakness. Damn Altaïr to hell for listening. For understanding. _For caring_.

And damn himself for taking comfort in that. He shook his head. Clearly it was time to stop taking hashish oil. But deep down, he knew it was more than the drug’s effects.

When Kadar awoke and had not known him, Malik fell apart inside. Kadar visibly cringed, then shrank away, as if Malik would hurt him. Any man in Malik’s place would have also been devastated. Maybe Kadar not recognizing him joined with the small amount of hashish oil to loosen his tongue. Did it matter how it happened? It was now too late to erase.

He _fell asleep_ with his head on Altaïr’s shoulder.

“Idiot,” he snarled, furious at himself. In this unsettled, irritable state, focusing on the intricacies of his maps or books was impossible. So he paced the workroom.

The drape closing off the bedchamber rippled, then drew back, revealing Altaïr. An absolutely disgraceful sight, unarmed, trousers blood stained and half torn away, blood smears dried brown on his white tunic, red sash only half tied and dragging on the floor, and his hood pushed back off his head. He stood leaning all of his weight against the doorway. Even from across the workroom Malik saw the pallor in his skin. It was entirely too soon for him to be walking on that injured leg.

Malik planted his fist on his hip. “Why are you up?” he snapped.

Altaïr blinked. Then he pushed away from the doorway and straightened, bearing all of his weight himself. Typical. Just like him to ignore common sense in favor of his arrogant need to appear invincible. Malik waved him off. “Go back to bed.”

“Kadar’s eyes are open. He seems somewhat aware, but is not talking. I thought you would want to come.”

“Uh...” Malik stammered. “Of course. Why did you not tell me that?”

Altaïr shrugged one shoulder. “You were too busy scolding me.”

As Malik walked forward, toward the bedchamber, Altaïr also turned. But his injured leg buckled, nearly depositing the usually graceful assassin on the floor. Malik rolled his eyes. “Let me help.”

Altaïr glared at him for a moment, then nodded. Prideful, even in the face of defeat. Shaking his head, Malik slid his arm around Altaïr’s waist and guided him back into the bedchamber.

#

Together, they came toward him. Two men, one robed in white, the other draped in black.

The man in black supported the man in white, held him up while he limped closer. White marred by dried blood. So much blood.

Kadar stared, terrified. His heart thudded in his chest. Though flat on his back, he tensed, gathering himself, ready to flee.

The man in black had only one arm. Where the left should have been there was only a short stump shrouded in black.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. So much like Malik. But they killed Malik.

His heart ached, a match for the deep, bruising pain in his body.

His brother was dead.

Then why was Malik here?

Malik had been captured too. They said so, and described in detail the agonies they inflicted before they killed him, slowly.

But there he stood. With Altaïr?

And why was Altaïr wounded?

“No,” he heard himself say, clearly.

Had both had been taken? Both imprisoned? Then they had lied when they said Malik was dead. But they did hurt him. Hurt him badly.

 _They took Malik’s arm._

And what of Altaïr?

No one could ever capture Altaïr. Not alive. And this man robed in white was alive.

His head spun. He fought, trying to meld his fractured thoughts together.

A trick.

“Kadar?”

Panic seized him. He shoved at the linens tangled around his body and rolled over. Then he crawled, away. Away from them.

Where were the shackles? The chains? How was he able to move? But he kept going, reaching one arm ahead of the other, dragging himself off the soft cushions. Cushions? Where was the dirt floor? The splintered wood? The cold stone?

Confused, he paused. The man in white now sat on the floor beside him with one leg stretched out, exposing a vicious cut held together by sutures. Kadar pushed back, away. But the man placed a hand on his arm. “Kadar... It’s Altaïr.”

He snatched his arm away. “No!!!”

“Kadar. You are safe. No one here will hurt you.”

“A trick...”

“No trick. I rescued you from the prison. You are safe.”

The man in black knelt down, watching him. Dark eyes. Malik’s eyes.

Kadar shook his head. He was not seeing this. Lies. All lies. “They k...killed Malik. Killed him.”

“This is Malik. He’s alive. Look at him.”

Whether or not Altaïr was real, Kadar would never deny him. So he looked up, and found the man in black watching him.

“Kadar?”

That voice. He’d known it all his life.

No. This was not real. Not real. He rejected the man.

“Tricks... All tricks. Not betraying the Brotherhood... Never.”

Now, pain.

He waited.

No pain?

The man in black held out his hand, palm up. “Kadar, please listen. You are safe. They are never going to hurt you again.” He then clenched his hand into a fist. “Never.”

And in that single word, spoken with absolute surety, Kadar heard some truth. This man might be his brother. Maybe? “M... Malik?” he asked, frightened now.

The man bent forward, and very faintly smiled. “Yes Kadar.”

His thoughts twisted, turned, splintered as he struggled with what he saw. He pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to make his mind work. “It’s all dark.”

“Don’t try to think. Just rest and I’ll take care of you. Will you eat?”

Eat? That at least he understood. Food came rarely. When they tossed him hard chunks of bread he knew to eat. Or starve. He nodded.

“You need to sit up. I will help you.” Then Malik, _Malik_ , slipped his arm beneath Kadar and propped him upright against the wall.

What happened to his brother’s left arm?

Malik sat beside him, a bowl balanced on his lap. Then his brother, _his brother_ , spooned small pieces of broth soaked bread into his mouth. The rich flavor awoke his long deprived sense of taste, and his stomach ached for more. Shaking, he reached for the spoon. Malik pulled it away. “I’ll feed you. Your body cannot tolerate much. Go slow.”

Malik fed him. He ate, wanting more. More. So good.

“Am I dead?” he wondered. Surely this was death. It was not reality.

Malik rested the spoon in the bowl, then set both aside. He took Kadar’s hand. “You are alive. Here with me, where you belong. And I will never, ever let anyone hurt you again.”

And Kadar thought maybe he believed him.

The man in white leaned over, as far as he could with his injured leg in the way. “This will help you rest,” he said, holding a glass bottle to Kadar’s lips.

Kadar opened his mouth, and Altaïr, _Altaïr_ , tipped the bottle. Bitter flooded over his tongue. But he swallowed. Then Malik cradled him with one arm, and settled him back onto the cushions.

Kadar stared first at his brother, then at Altaïr. “You are not real.”

“I am real,” Altaïr replied, nodding toward Malik. “We both are.”

“You freed me?”

“I did.”

“Altaïr,” he whispered. He dreamt of this during the long stretches of painful darkness when he was alone, not being hurt by them. Altaïr... The man he looked up to. The man he had wanted so badly that at times his desire reduced him to accepting any scrap of attention from the master assassin. Those few stolen times together always ended abruptly, leaving him gasping, breathless, still aroused, and unsure he had even touched Altaïr.

That Altaïr and this man were not the same. That Altaïr never touched him, except to push him down onto his knees. And that Altaïr never offered any hint of affection. This man sat beside him, holding his hand.

Altaïr held one hand. Malik held the other.

He shifted his head from one side, to the other, then back, meeting the eyes of each man. Both watched him, dark eyes intense, amber eyes unblinking. Altaïr and Malik. Each holding one of his hands in theirs.

Malik’s grip firm, yet trembling. Altaïr’s hold warm, steady.

Both there, at his side.

No. This was not real.

“I’m dead...” he murmured, now certain he no longer breathed.

Finally, it was over. He was dead. Calm crept through his body and into his mind. Eased by this new feeling of peace, he closed his eyes and drifted away.

#

As the hashish oil took effect Kadar relaxed into peaceful sleep. Malik and Altaïr remained at his side.

Though Kadar had finally shown some return to life, his disjointed speech and apparent inability to separate his horrible memories from current reality left Malik uneasy. “He’s almost like a child,” he observed.

Then Malik recalled how, despite all that, small glimpses of the true Kadar showed through. That gave him hope. “But refusing to betray the Brotherhood? After all they did to him, he is still resisting them?” He pressed his brother’s hand to his lips, then held it to his heart. “What strength.”

For that brief moment, Malik forgot the horror lying before him. He felt pride. Not self-absorbed arrogance. But awe, and deep admiration for his younger brother.

“That’s how much he respects the Creed Altaïr. A true Brother.”

“And I am not?”

Malik glanced over at the assassin. Altaïr still held Kadar’s other hand. That annoyed Malik. But he ignored the twinge of unease, realizing that for Kadar, Altaïr’s presence would only help. He lifted an eyebrow. “You’re learning.”


	8. Returned (part 8 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 8 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 5,500 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


 **a/n:** Warning: This part contains elements listed in the overall warning above, including rape and torture.

  


  
 **Returned** – part eight

Steam swirled into the air, rising up toward the vaulted roof. Light shined down through the pieces of red and blue glass set into the arching span, scattering brilliantly colored stars over the hammam’s steam room. Malik sat in a corner, his left side against the wall. Even here in the dim light, where men exposed all their physical flaws, he kept what remained of his left arm out of view. Not easy when fully undressed.

While allowing the steam to do its part cleansing his skin, he wondered how Kadar would manage facing the same dilemma. Time at the hammam was part of life, steam and hot water and scrubbing cleaned more than the body. But for Kadar, that horrific brand and permanent scars left by the shackles might keep him away. Just as what was left of Malik’s arm nearly did to him. Not that it would matter if Kadar never regained his mind.

Malik tilted his head back, and sighed, heavily. Overhead the inset pieces of glass in the roof hung like multicolored stars in a dark night sky. His eyes traced from one to the next, across the ceiling. And he emptied his mind.

Altaïr had been right. He needed this escape. Nursing Kadar stretched his limits. So did worry for his brother. But the desire to get away, if even for only a few hours, was also provoked by Altaïr himself.

Since the night they shared hashish oil, and he had spoken too much, Malik struggled with Altaïr’s presence. The following day, when Kadar first woke, Altaïr proved more than guilt motivated his need to help. The assassin treated Kadar with patience, kindness, and gentle compassion. Kadar responded.

So did Malik.

Now, he found he could barely share the same room with Altaïr. During the rare moments he forgot his unease and they spoke, those conversations came naturally, free of any tension. Altaïr had changed. He was not the same man who caused so much trouble and grief in Solomon’s Temple.

And that was precisely the problem. Malik knew how to deal with the self-absorbed, arrogant assassin. This man, learning humility and showing compassion, challenged Malik.

But even more, there was the intuitive feeling that something had altered between them that night Malik fell asleep with his head on Altaïr’s shoulder. A shift, mostly subtle, though it flared more than once when they touched simply because they worked in a small space together.

He remembered feeding Kadar while Altaïr held the bowl. Kneeling side by side next to the bed, shoulders and knees touching, barely.

Wreathed in the billowing steam, sweat pouring over his skin, Malik shivered.

Perhaps this was nothing more than need. Need for someone to support him while he cared for Kadar. Need for a connection to his past life as an assassin. Simple physical need.

Malik slid the towel over his lap, concealing his body’s reaction to these thoughts. It had been a very long time since he felt the stirring of any desire. Like his brother, he preferred men. Unlike Kadar, he had never revealed his true nature to other assassins. Always he looked elsewhere to sate his physical needs, on the rare occasions he allowed himself such pleasure.

Now he found himself physically drawn to the last man alive he could ever imagine sharing this most intimate secret with. In the previous few days, change had indeed occurred in his small bedchamber at the bureau. Change beyond the slow evolution of Altaïr from the past into a new man. Or perhaps this was all inspired by Altaïr changing?

Malik groaned, quietly. His developing problem was trivial. How could he sit here, indulging in these ridiculous thoughts? Kadar still suffered, lost in some other world, and might never fully return to life. Any challenges Altaïr’s presence created for Malik he would willingly face. Because his brother needed them both.

He dragged his limp body up from the stone bench. The few men lounging in the steam ignored him as he headed to the hammam’s bathing room. But Altaïr remained with him, a lingering presence no amount of steam and scrubbing and water could cleanse away.

#

Kadar fell asleep soon after Altaïr fed him an entire bowl of bread soaked in broth, followed by a dose of hashish oil. Despite what the young assassin had endured, and the very slow healing process, he regained his appetite quickly.

Sitting beside him, partially reclined against a cushion between his back and the wall, Altaïr relaxed. The morning had been chaotic, with Malik insisting the bedchamber was spotless and tidy before he left for the hammam.

For days Altaïr pushed Malik to spend a few hours taking care of himself, bathing and simply getting out of the bureau. But leaving his brother proved impossible. He never left, not even for food. Because Altaïr was confined until his wound began healing, Malik had provisions brought in by novice assassins working in Jerusalem. Altaïr hated the intrusion, hated feeling helpless. But he had no choice. At least Malik denied any of the novices entrance to the bedchamber.

Nearly a fortnight total passed since Kadar had been returned, and a week since he first regained some awareness. Since then, he woke a few times a day when the hashish oil began to wear off. But each time he remained dazed, and rarely communicated with either Malik or Altaïr. When he did speak, his words were disjointed and made little sense. He continued to believe nothing was real, or worse, that he was dead. It seemed at times he thought this was some kind of afterlife. Punctuating those moments were acute bouts of intense fear. More than once he woke screaming. Then he would fall silent, awake, but staring, seemingly lifeless, as he had done when Altaïr first found him.

This pattern continued for days without change. The surgeon advised that Kadar was progressing, just very slowly. Though frustrated, Malik understood patience was required. He expressed this to Altaïr during one of the few times they actually conversed. Speech between them was now rare. Altaïr wondered how much of that resulted from their one night sharing hashish oil, when both exposed hidden vulnerabilities. The silences between them since then felt strained, and awkward. Yet at other times, they spoke like they had when young and training together, when they had actually been friends.

Altaïr yearned for those moments. Perhaps too much. He also yearned for the physical closeness of falling asleep as they had that one night, heads upon each other’s shoulders. Malik acted as if it had never happened. But Altaïr could not forget.

The bedchamber was a small, confined space, and he continually fought the urge to simply get up and leave. Instead, he encouraged Malik to go, at least for a short time.

Finally Malik relented, agreeing that an afternoon away might be beneficial. He also agreed that visiting the hammam was necessary. Bathing in the bureau consisted of buckets and sponges. Not exactly the luxurious hammam experience of steaming and soaking until completely cleansed.

Altaïr recognized the trust Malik placed in him to stay alone with Kadar. This was not gathering dirty linens, or heating water so Malik could bathe Kadar, or any of the other menial tasks Altaïr assisted with before his injury. When Malik had bid his brother farewell for a few hours, Altaïr said nothing. If at this point Malik still questioned Altaïr’s commitment to helping Kadar recover, he concealed it well. As he left, Altaïr simply nodded. Malik nodded back. More awkwardness and tension between them. Then he was gone.

Now, Altaïr had the bedchamber to himself, and he appreciated the quiet time. He closed his eyes, and lulled by the soft breathing of Kadar beside him, soon dozed lightly.

#

They came for him. He knew they would. Three Templars. This time he had no chance to escape. Iron ringed his wrists. His ankles. His neck. Chains barely long enough for him to sit on the hard stone floor bound the shackles to the wall. A large table occupied the center of the room. To one side a fire burned, tended by slaves throughout the day and night. From the depths of the coals protruded multiple lengths of iron topped with wood handles. Though he couldn’t see the ends buried in the fire, he knew what laid there. His gut clenched.

Kadar closed his eyes. Until now they had avoided causing him damage. It seemed they were proud of their work keeping him alive. But as he gained his strength back, he knew that would end. He had information they wanted, and they would use any means to get it. And that was why he tried to escape. Weak, still in pain from the sword wound in his chest, he had not gotten far.

After his attempted escape, they locked the shackles onto him, then left him here, alone for a full day. He had a bucket to relieve himself in and a jug of water. No food. This was not the locked, but clean, cell he woke up in weeks before. No one here tended the massive sword wound he took while at Solomon’s Temple. No. This room was meant for one purpose only.

Kadar had gone from a prisoner they wanted alive, to a prisoner they would torture to death for information. They would have to kill him. Never would he betray the Brotherhood.

Angry, defiant, Kadar tossed his head back and glared up at the men.

One Templar stood by the fire. “When we are finished tonight you will understand we are your masters now,” he said in heavily accented Arabic. He leaned over the fire and gripped one of the long wooden handles, then yanked, hard. From the coals emerged not the poker, nor pincers Kadar anticipated. But a large brand. The glowing iron passed before Kadar’s eyes. “You will be marked ours.”

A Templar cross? They were going to brand him with that? Kadar gathered what little saliva he could in his parched mouth and spat. It hit the searing hot cross, hissing.

The Templar smiled. The filthy fucking dog smiled. “But that can wait. First, we will _make_ you ours.” He shoved the brand back into the fire. Then all three men seized Kadar. He fought, struggling against the chains binding him to the wall. And he screamed. Not a wail of terror. A cry of defiance.

They laughed. One grabbed his head, then slammed it back against the stone wall. And again. And again. The room blurred. Then they released the chains from the wall and threw him face down on the table.

Dazed, he lay there while they chained him down, then ripped his tunic away, exposing his back. Dizzy from the repeated blows to his head, he felt the table shift beneath him.

A hand clenched around the back of his neck. Against his ear, hot breath. “You assassins are all animals.”

Too dazed to fight, Kadar lay there, chained and helpless. But he found his voice. “Filthy dog,” he answered, then spat.

The hand on his neck reached around to his throat. Slowly, it squeezed. “You would like me to kill you now, no?”

Again, Kadar spat. The hand loosened, then fingers twisted into his short hair. Behind him the man straddled his back. He felt the fingers tighten, his head lift. Then the man slammed his forehead down against the table. “Breaking you will be our pleasure.”

He tensed as the man slid back. The table again shifted. At his side, the Templar now leered down at him while unbuckling his sword belt. “Our pretty assassin whore,” the Templar said, smiling again. He pulled his tunic aside. “Open your mouth.”

The damage to his head left Kadar’s mind fogged. But not enough to erase his defiance. He clamped his jaw tight, and glared up at the Templar.

In Arabic, the Templar ordered, “Cut him.”

As the knife sliced into his leg, Kadar fought down a scream. But his jaw loosened enough, and the Templar pried it open. Then the filthy dog forced his entire length into Kadar’s mouth.

“Suck, whore. Get me ready to fuck you.”

Kadar tried to bite down, but the Templar’s iron grip on his jaw stopped him.

Another cut penetrated deep into his leg. The Templar pulled back, then shoved himself in deeper, violating Kadar’s mouth. “Every time you bite, we cut. Understand?”

Kadar understood. He was trapped, their prisoner. Whether he fought or not, they would hurt him.

He fought. He kept fighting, even after the first Templar ripped into him, tearing his ass, brutally taking him while another used his mouth. The third wielded the knife, piercing and twisting. And Kadar fought on, straining against the chains securing him to this hell. But soon, the physical pain combined with abject degradation overwhelmed him. His will to fight eroded, until it dissolved away completely. With it, reality also fled.

When the last man yanked out of his torn body, Kadar barely twitched. He felt his face wet with tears, and worse. The semen spattered there burned his eyes. He hurt, badly. Again and again, he had been raped, and he knew he was bleeding from the force they used, prying him open and shoving themselves inside him mercilessly. They violated him with more than their own anatomies. At some point one of them used a long, thick piece of iron instead. Not from the fire. Cold, but it still burned as it was rammed deep inside him, and twisted until he cried out, begging for mercy. Yes, he was bleeding from there. And bleeding from the cuts they inflicted on him every time he struggled. But some of that pain seemed removed now, like this small part of him was insulated from the worst of it, drifting now, free from horrific reality.

He heard the men laughing.

Something pressed against his back. Not hands this time.

Suddenly, agonizing pain jerked his mind and body back into the present.

Kadar screamed, and screamed, and kept screaming while the Templar seared the cross into his back. He willed himself unconscious.

Instead, he lay there, burning. His back, his insides, every part of him dissolving into molten fire.

And still he screamed.

#

Cries of agony tore Altaïr from sleep. Instinctively, he reached for the throwing knife hidden beneath his pillow and leapt to his feet. Beside him, where Kadar had been sleeping, the cushions were empty, and scattered. His injured leg held as he swung around, searching for Kadar.

Across the bedchamber, the young assassin huddled facing the corner, arms over his head, rocking back and forth, now silent.

Obviously something had triggered the violent awakening. Whatever it had been forced him out of bed, unaided, for the first time. And with Malik gone, Altaïr would have to handle this unexpected crisis alone. Kadar was unclothed, as he had been to allow his wounds to heal, and for ease of hygiene care.

Altaïr set the throwing knife down and gathered a linen sheet from the floor. Approaching Kadar he softly called out, “Kadar... Kadar... It’s Altaïr.”

Kadar tightened his arms over his head, but gradually halted the rocking motion. He began to shiver despite the afternoon sun streaming in through the high window, warming the bedchamber.

“I’m going to put a sheet over you.” Altaïr barely breathed as he draped the linen around Kadar, covering his back, concealing the vile cross, the gradually healing cuts and fading bruises. Then he lifted his hands away. “Can you hear me Kadar?”

No response. Kadar needed to be back in bed. So Altaïr took a deep breath, then knelt and placed his arm around Kadar’s shoulders, high up, away from the still healing brand.

“It’s me Kadar. Altaïr. I am here for you...”

Kadar shuddered, then his arms dropped away from his head, falling limp at his sides.

He lifted his face and turned, slightly.

Tears pooled in his blue eyes. Through them Altaïr saw fear, and pain, and emptiness. Not the blank stare he had become accustomed to from Kadar. No. This bleak expression was that of utter despair, of loss so acute only through years of discipline was Altaïr able to halt his overwhelming reaction. All he wanted was to take Kadar into his arms, and erase the horrific past.

Instead, he projected absolute calm. Keeping his arm loosely around Kadar’s shoulders, he considered his words carefully. “You are safe now Kadar. Do you know me?”

Kadar pulled away from under Altaïr’s arm and clutched the sheet around his trembling body. He lifted his head and turned until he faced Altaïr completely. But he shrank back into the corner.

Altaïr remained still. “You are safe Kadar. There’s nothing to fear.”

Kadar blinked, sending tears spilling over his cheeks. The lines of pain etched into his face softened, slightly. He tilted his head, as if unsure what he was seeing before him. “A... Alt... Altaïr?”

An enormous wave of relief swept over Altaïr. He nearly smiled. “Yes. It’s me.”

“Altaïr...” Kadar whispered, his body still shaking.

Such fear. For the thousandth time since rescuing him, Altaïr wondered how the once strong, vibrant young assassin had been reduced to this pathetic state. Anger flickered inside him, but he quickly stamped it out. Dealing with Kadar was like handling a damaged piece of glass. Nothing could be allowed to jar his already upended emotions or he might shatter completely. So again, Altaïr offered quiet reassurances.

“No one is ever going to hurt you again. Never again.” Suddenly, blind instinct inspired him. He opened his arms, wide, welcoming Kadar into his embrace. “You are safe.”

Kadar’s eyes widened. Not with fear. With something Altaïr had not yet seen. Hope? Kadar leaned forward, then cautiously inched his trembling body into Altaïr’s arms.

Unmoving, Altaïr allowed Kadar complete control of this leap of faith.

When Kadar finally nestled himself completely, and went still, Altaïr carefully closed his arms, embracing the young assassin. A loose hold, gentle. Kadar kept both arms curled tight against himself, hands still clutching the linen sheet. Then he began whispering. “...not real, not real, not real,” he repeated against Altaïr’s chest.

This grown man, an assassin, and a man Altaïr had been intimate with, was now like a young child in his arms. Lost, adrift with no anchor. He tightened his hold, very slightly. “You feel me holding you. How am I not real?”

“I... I...”

Suddenly, Kadar leaned back while staying in the circle of Altaïr’s embrace. He tilted his face up. There, in his blue eyes, painful longing. “I wanted you... You never wanted me like this. So how can this be real?” He again pressed his face into Altaïr’s chest, then breathed deep. Exhaling, he murmured, “This is not real...”

The simple honesty of Kadar baring his heart struck Altaïr, hard. He never saw this depth of feeling during those few times they had been together. Not really together, because not once did he touch Kadar. To reciprocate would have encouraged more between them than fulfillment of Altaïr’s physical need. And Kadar had already admired him openly, enough to create gossip among those with nothing better to do. So Altaïr had sought his company only rarely, and made it clear there was nothing between them. Kadar seemed to understand, and remained willing. Never had Altaïr guessed just how deeply Kadar wanted him.

Wanted? No. This was more than want.

And inside Altaïr, something responded. For days he watched Kadar suffer, knowing the pain and degradation and brutality that the young assassin had so bravely endured. Added to that the ongoing troubles and tension with Malik, which had only dissipated fully that one night.

Quite simply, Altaïr had overreached even his extreme limits of remaining detached.

Gently, he pushed Kadar away until he looked into those pain rimmed eyes. “This is real,” he began, cupping Kadar’s face, fighting the building ache in his own heart. “This is real. Do you not feel it?”

Kadar leaned into Altaïr’s hand, as if he wanted to believe. But then he closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Feel? I feel... Shame. That is what I feel. Altaïr will never want me now. Never. After what they did, no one will ever touch me.”

The quiet reference to the traumatizing sexual violence he suffered nearly broke Altaïr’s calm. Fury would do no good now. Instead, he held Kadar closer, as if he could take away all that pain. Into the tangle of black hair, he whispered, “I am touching you. I...” He paused, feeling the faint stirrings of need, and more. Not then, not until Kadar healed. But there was no mistaking the desire now rising in his blood. “I want you Kadar. When you have healed, I want you. The way you’ve always imagined me wanting you.”

Again, Kadar rejected reality. “Because you are not real.”

“I am. I am real,” he said, calmly, ignoring his body responding to Kadar pressed against him in this emotionally intimate embrace. “You are wanted.”

But Kadar pulled away, shaking his head. “I am nothing... Nothing. I begged them to stop hurting me.” His voice began to waver, trembling. “I BEGGED. I am no assassin. No man. Nothing.”

Then Altaïr sensed he was slipping away. His eyes now stared ahead, empty.

Altaïr refused to allow him to retreat. Though he released his hold, not wanting to frighten him, he spoke firmly. “Listen to me Kadar. No shame. Feel no shame. You did nothing wrong. They stole your control. They hurt you. There is no shame in that.”

Then, he recalled how Kadar reacted to seeing Malik. The terrible grief because he believed Malik was dead, and refused to grasp the truth. Perhaps during this lucid moment, Altaïr could give him back his brother, and ease some of this destructive self hate drowning him.

He again looked into Kadar’s eyes. “Do you know how much Malik loves you?”

Kadar blinked, and the glazed expression vanished. “How can he? After what they did to me...”

The reply, though still echoing the deep sense of shame Kadar felt, relieved Altaïr. At least the insistence that Malik had been killed was gone for now.

“Nothing can break the bonds of family, of blood. No matter what those filthy dogs did to you, your brother loves you. That you are alive, here beside him has given him new life.”

 _And you have given me new life as well Kadar..._ But he kept those words to himself.

“But they... They hurt me...” he said, softly, huddling against Altaïr. “I was weak... Weak...”

Altaïr recognized this emotionally charged interaction had exhausted Kadar. Slowly, soothingly, he trailed his fingers through Kadar’s hair. “Malik and I will help you get through this. We are here for you Kadar.”

“I am shamed...”

Into Kadar’s ear, he whispered, “Shh... No shame... You are loved, and wanted. Be at peace Kadar.”

And he held Kadar close, wrapped in his arms, not caring that his reckless words might have exposed too much of what his heart not yet understood. Soon Kadar’s shallow, sharp breaths slowed and lengthened, and the rigidity in his body eased.

Altaïr sat there, until certain Kadar slept. Then he carefully lifted him into his arms, carried him to bed and settled him back onto the cushions. He touched his lips to Kadar’s cheek. As he slowly lifted his head away, he whispered, “No shame Kadar.”

Devastated. Aroused. Confused. Altaïr sagged onto to the floor, reeling with the onslaught of emotions. How could he feel anything remotely close to desire after all that Kadar suffered? Sick. To feel this was sick, twisted. Wrong. Unless it was engendered by pity? By guilt? No. Those negative emotions would inhibit, not create, arousal.

And this was more than physical want. Beneath that, there was solid emotion. A fundamental need to offer himself. To ease the pain ripping Kadar apart. To provide solace. To give affection.

He braced one hand against the wall and pushed himself back to his feet. With Kadar now soundly asleep, he needed to escape, to breathe, maybe shove his head into the fountain’s cool water. Before Malik returned, he had to regain total control of his errant emotions.

Because the healing wound in his thigh required air, he wore only a lightweight tunic that fell to just above his knees. He might as well have been naked, because without his weapons that’s how he felt, even for a visit to the courtyard only a few steps away. He grabbed the throwing knife he tossed aside earlier.

Before leaving the bedchamber, he glanced back. Seeing Kadar still peacefully asleep reassured him, and he stepped out into the courtyard.

The afternoon sun had now passed far enough to the west to plunge the stone paved area in shadow. The sound of water gently splashing into the fountain created a serene oasis. Altaïr exhaled, wishing this tranquil place could grant him some escape from the turmoil in his head. And his heart.

At the fountain, he trailed his fingertips through the cool water. Ever the assassin, his senses remained on edge. From behind him, the quietest footstep sounded, barely noticeable.

He swung around, throwing knife gripped and ready. Before he had even turned completely, he saw there was no threat and lowered his hand. “You know better than to sneak up on an assassin like that.”

Malik stared at him, dark eyes blazing with fury.

“Malik?”

Suddenly, Malik threw up his arm, clenching his hand into a fist. Instinctively, Altaïr backed away, until he bumped into the wall. Malik lunged at him, reaching back with his fist.

Altaïr raised his forearm, ready to halt the imminent punch.

But before Altaïr could defend, Malik opened his hand and smashed it flat against the wall beside Altaïr’s head.

Chest heaving, eyes raging, he leaned forward until Altaïr felt hot breath upon his face. Then Malik slammed him against the wall and grabbed the back of his neck. Still staring, still exuding absolute fury, Malik crushed their mouths together.

The intensity of Malik’s passion, whether driven by anger and the need for revenge, or by suppressed desire, razed the last of Altaïr’s already weakened defenses. He opened his mouth, accepting this violent intrusion.

Desire, raw and now utterly revealed, exploded between them. Void of any tenderness, they kissed, their mouths, their tongues, fighting for control. Altaïr felt Malik’s erection push against him, long and hard even through Malik’s thick robe and trousers. Stifling a moan, he thrust back. While Malik held him against the wall, kissing him, Altaïr realized how badly he had wanted this, wanted Malik.

The throwing knife slipped from his fingers, and clattered onto the stone pavement. Needing more, wanting more, Altaïr pushed his hand under Malik’s back robe, reaching around, grabbing his ass and pulling them closer. Malik responded, moaning as his tongue explored Altaïr’s mouth, darting in, then out, then baring his teeth and biting Altaïr’s lip, none too gently. The tiny spark of pain amidst the intense pleasure shot straight to Altaïr’s groin. He thrust harder against Malik’s erection, and both moaned into their kiss.

Abruptly, Malik tore his mouth away. He dug his fingers into Altaïr’s neck, and stared. This time Altaïr saw more than fury. There was sorrow. Desire. Pain. Longing.

Malik turned his head to the side and spat. Then he looked back up. “No shame,” he said, oddly quiet. His fingers dug harder until Altaïr flinched. “No shame Altaïr?”

Suddenly understanding, Altaïr sagged against the wall. Malik had seen him with Kadar. “Malik...” He closed his mouth.

They stood, frozen. Still aroused. Altaïr still pressed against the wall by Malik’s entire body. Malik’s hand still gripping the back of his neck. Both of his arms still around Malik, one hand at firm against the small of Malik’s back, the other snaked beneath the black robe, clutching his ass. Their eyes fixed on each other, as if for either to look away meant a loss of control, and an admission of defeat.

Malik broke first. He leaned forward. Gently, he pressed a kiss on Altaïr’s mouth. “No shame?” he whispered, then opened his hand from behind Altaïr’s neck. He backed away, out of Altaïr’s arms, their eyes still locked. But all the passion had burned away, replaced now by quiet sadness.

As Altaïr began to reach for him, Malik shook his head, then turned and slowly retreated into the bureau. His footsteps faded until only the only sound remaining in the courtyard was the soft splash of water falling into the fountain

Altaïr slid down the wall, and slumped on the ground. If this was simple revenge, Malik could not have inflicted worse on him without causing physical damage. Before Malik found him there by the fountain, he was already grappling with his reaction to Kadar, and the new feelings he had experienced that afternoon.

Now? Absolute chaos.

Altaïr’s mind rapidly tried to make sense of it all. If Malik had seen him with Kadar, why not follow through with that punch? Instead, Malik gave in to what had obviously been simmering between them for days. Or longer. And Malik wanting men, not women? How had Altaïr _not_ known? Malik hid his true nature well over the years. This revelation explained so much of their relationship, the ongoing rivalry, and recent tension.

But what happened had not been about revenge, of that he was certain. Malik also faced some difficult truths that afternoon.

Just then, Altaïr had no ability to cope with this violent emotional upheaval. What he needed now was escape. First, he had to deal with the lingering physical result of the day’s events.

He slid his hand under the tunic, and closed his fingers around his erection. As he stroked himself quickly to completion, he recalled Kadar long ago on his knees, taking Altaïr between those full lips, and into that willing mouth, sucking him off quickly and in silence. Then, Kadar in his embrace earlier that day, needing safety and reassurance. Those images blurred, and he felt Malik slamming him against the wall, kissing him with passion like nothing he ever imagined, while fucking him through their clothes.

 _Almost there..._

The memories of Kadar’s touch, both long past and in his arms that day, merged with Malik’s intense passion and desire, together transcending basic physical need.

He bit his lip, hard. That finished him...

Both Al-Sayf brothers were in his mind, and his heart, as Altaïr succumbed to the pleasure of his own hand.

#

At his sleeping brother’s side Malik sat, silent, still in shock, watching Altaïr return from the courtyard. He had expected Altaïr to remain out there, alone. It took nerve for the assassin to walk back in as if nothing had happened between them.

Altaïr strode into the bedchamber, ignored Malik, and gathered his clothes and weapons. Keeping his eyes focused on dressing, he pulled on a clean, undamaged pair of trousers and white tunic, not bothering to remove the under tunic he had been wearing while his wound healed. That tunic was now stained with fresh blood from the sutures surely torn in places. Ripped open from Malik pressing against him, all uncontrolled fury and desire, oblivious to the injury on Altaïr’s thigh. Though he should have offered to again repair the wound, Malik said nothing. He could not find any words for Altaïr after what he instigated out there by the fountain.

 _I want you.  
I hate you.  
I am sorry.  
I need you._

What could he say?

So he remained silent. Perhaps this was exactly what they both needed. A night apart, to think. Because despite his anger and confusion over what he had witnessed between Altaïr and Kadar, Malik wanted nothing more than to slam Altaïr up against that wall again and...

He wiped the thought from his mind, and denied the arousal again stirring in his body. He wanted nothing from Altaïr. Right?

But Altaïr had wanted him. Their desire was mutual. And what of the undeniable affection Altaïr had shown Kadar? That was far more than simple kindness.

While watching Altaïr finish dressing, and begin strapping on his weapons, Malik’s head swirled with these crazy thoughts that redefined everything around him, and himself.

Now dressed and fully armed, Altaïr flipped the hood up over his head. Then, without even a glance at Malik, or to where Kadar slept, he vanished through the doorway.

Malik took his brother’s hand into his. “I fear for you Kadar... for us both.”

  



	9. Returned (part 9 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 9 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 2,100 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


 **Returned** – part nine

  
Reality ebbed and flowed for Kadar. Much of the time he lived shrouded in dense fog, senses dulled, his mind unable to gather itself enough for any organized thought. And fear, always the fear gnawing at him, driving him back into the darkness. But today he sat upright, his body sore, though no longer in constant pain. The hashish oil helped with that. His muddled head had cleared enough for him to understand the man seated beside him on the pile of cushions was his brother. But where was Altaïr?

“Malik?”

“Hmm?”

“When will he return?”

His brother drew his eyebrows together for a moment, then sighed. “Please think of something else Kadar. Here, let us go over this map again.”

Malik slid the map across their laps, prepared to resume what he termed _mental exercises_. But Kadar knew this was all meant to distract him. It never worked, and only confused him more.

The days and nights blurred, with dark, empty gaps from more than sleep. Horrific memories swooped out of nowhere, stealing his consciousness, trapping him in the past. He existed, barely. He fed himself when Malik brought food. Despite the crippling weakness keeping him mostly in bed, he managed to sit up enough to wash himself, then dress in the loose tunic Malik gave him. Covering his body, and the scars and wounds, gave him some sense of relief. The healed scars he tended, rubbing herb infused oil into them, hoping they would someday fade. He hated baring himself for Malik to dress those wounds slow to heal, and always kept his eyes shut during those difficult moments. Fortunately, he took care of relieving himself without the need for help.

He lived. Alive. But not. He blocked most of life from his mind. Already he existed in a state that was not normal, not real. To think, to remember beyond what his mind forced him to relive, would surely drive him into that dark place, with no escape. Maybe that was for the best.

Maybe not. Because he had felt something more. Twice.

First, when Altaïr held his damaged body with gentleness he could never have imagined from the detached, seemingly unfeeling assassin. Then, when he awoke, momentarily clear headed and fully aware, to find Malik alive, and at his bedside. He had dreamt of his brother taking care of him, though now he thought perhaps those dreams were actually memories.

He doubted Altaïr had actually been there at all. In his hazy memory, the assassin had held him, and offered everything Kadar needed. Comfort and affection and... No. That was not Altaïr. He had not been real.

But this man was Malik. Only his brother lived with such intensity. Even now, with one arm.

 _Stop asking about your brother, assassin whore. Unless you want me to tell you all this again? Yes? His body long ago fed the rats. He was halfway dead when we found him. Though we did enjoy what little life was left. After we took turns fucking him, we used your favorite toy in him. Just like with you. But not cold. Right out of the fire. Shall I tell you again how he screamed?_

Lost for that moment, Kadar clawed his way back to the bedchamber. He felt the map clutched in his hand. The soft cushions beneath his body. Heard the soothing sound of Malik breathing.

And the past dissipated.

They had lied. As if their physical torture was not enough pain inflicted, they subjected his mind, his emotions to abuse equally damaging. And now, he still found it nearly impossible to separate lies from reality.

Kadar pushed the map away, forcing Malik to look at him. “I still cannot believe you are alive.”

And Malik squeezed his hand, offering a faint smile. Kadar hated that all those months he suffered, so too did Malik, each believing the other was dead. And for Kadar, thinking Malik suffered worse than he even did before those Templar dogs killed him. They had lied, and tortured him endlessly with that lie.

Shuddering, Kadar blinked, desperate to clear that resurfaced memory away.

This, he hated. Hated his mind not functioning. Hated the brutal flashbacks, and the enormous blank gaps from memories he had lost completely.

He had no recollection of what happened after they were separated from Altaïr in Solomon’s Temple. Malik told him that was because his mind protected him from remembering the horrific sword wound he took in the chest. But Kadar refused to believe that.

If his mind wanted to protect him, why not erase all of the past few months? No, instead he relived the pain and degradation and...

“Kadar,” his brother called to him. “Kadar?”

But Kadar squeezed his eyes shut, welcoming the darkness muting his thoughts. All he wanted now was to forget. As his mind retreated, he felt Malik’s arm embrace him, pulling them together. Flooded with warmth, he let go, falling into his safe place, knowing his brother watched over him.

#

Malik tightened his arm around his brother’s waist. “Lean on me.”

“B... But...” Kadar stuttered, swaying on his feet.

“One arm doesn’t make me weak. Lean Kadar. You must walk.”

“I... I...” he again stuttered, his body trembling slightly.

Malik glanced aside, and found him now staring empty eyed at the bedchamber floor. He slipped away again. Not far though. At least he still held himself upright. So Malik pushed ahead with his plan to free Kadar from the worst of the debilitating fear, and get him moving. “Come,” he said while cautiously nudging Kadar forward. “The sun will do you good.”

Kadar responded. He leaned hard against Malik and took a small step, then another. Gradually they made their way to the courtyard.

Malik took advantage of every moment Kadar showed any grasp of reality. Usually, he pulled out a map, and had Kadar focus on it, pointing out places, reading words. Anything to get Kadar’s mind functioning. Even during those seemingly lucid moments, Kadar rarely spoke. When he did, he made little sense. Still, he progressed, at least enough to take care of his body himself, and eat whatever Malik offered him.

But this was only the second time Malik had been able to coax him out of the bedchamber.

Slowly, he guided Kadar across the sun splashed courtyard to the fountain. Waiting there was a cushion he had earlier placed on the stone cobbles. The repeated, violent sexual trauma left Kadar with damage that had still not healed, and sitting on any hard surface caused him considerable pain. Malik gritted his teeth simply thinking about it. No number of prison guards dead by Altaïr’s hand and piled in the streets of Jerusalem could ever erase his hatred for those filthy dogs.

He refocused his mind on Kadar, easing him carefully down onto the cushion. Then he scooped a cup into the cool water, drank, refilled it, and sat beside his brother.

“Water?” he offered.

Staring at his hands knotted in his lap, Kadar shook his head. Then he sighed. “I knew he wasn’t real.”

He. Altaïr, of course.

Maybe this was for the best. Usually Kadar’s ongoing struggle separating reality from the odd dream world he inhabited most of time greatly disturbed Malik. But not when Kadar referenced Altaïr, which he did, often. The sooner he stopped believing Altaïr would be there for him, the better. Because Malik suspected his own stupid, impulsive actions had driven the assassin away for good.

Altaïr had been gone from Jerusalem for three weeks. What Malik assumed would be a short time apart for both of them to allow their thoughts to settle became an extended separation. It felt to Malik as if Altaïr ran away. Not really; he was hard at work, ruthlessly eliminating his targets. But since that late afternoon by the fountain, he had not returned.

Malik noticed Kadar weaving his fingers together, then pulling them apart and rubbing the scars encircling his wrists. This anxiety driven behavior started soon after Altaïr left them. Though Malik wanted to stop him, he knew enough to allow Kadar this peculiar way of comforting himself.

Casually, not wanting to cause more stress, he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

Without looking up from his hands, Kadar whispered, “Will these scars ever heal? Will I?”

Those two simple questions nearly broke Malik’s heart. He gently pulled one of Kadar’s hands free, and held it in his. “Yes,” he replied, though he didn’t really believe it. Always Kadar would live with the physical scars, and the nightmares, and whatever damage the trauma had done to his mind.

Malik pushed all that away. None of it mattered. “Please look at me Kadar.”

Kadar lifted his face. The brilliant sunshine enhanced the deep blue of his eyes. Somehow, the beauty there, and the trust upon his brother’s face struck Malik in a profound way. He smiled. “I love you. No matter what happens in our future, you will always have me.”

He then leaned over and touched a kiss on his brother’s forehead. Kadar tugged his hand, pulling them closer. Then he wrapped his arms around Malik’s waist and curled up against him.

Malik drew his fingers through Kadar’s hair, slowly, knowing this always relaxed them both.

Would anyone else ever be able to care for Kadar like this? Have this patience? Love him enough to be gentle and kind?

Over and over during the past three weeks he recalled that startling moment when he saw Altaïr with Kadar. On the threshold between his workroom and the bedchamber, half concealed by the drape, he stood, watching. Ever the assassin, Altaïr was always alert and aware. But not that day. He had been completely focused on Kadar.

Emotions had crashed through Malik while he watched. Anger, tinged with dark jealousy. Together, these swelled into uncontrolled fury. How dare Altaïr offer such comfort?! Yet he found himself unable to move, to stop what transpired between Altaïr and Kadar. He also envied Kadar this attention. Altaïr had actually spoken for Malik, reassuring Kadar that Malik loved him no matter what had happened. Had the once detached, arrogant assassin changed _that_ much? It seemed so, and the quiet compassion Altaïr displayed reached Malik beyond the fire raging in his heart.

Then Altaïr kissed Kadar. Even that chaste contact on Kadar’s cheek felt like a violation of Malik’s trust. At war with himself, not wanting to upset Kadar, he backed away, desperately fighting to contain the emotions and reactions bleeding out of him. Until Altaïr stood by the fountain, alone. Then he exploded in a raging ball of fury and pent up desire.

Now, three weeks later, Malik still found himself deeply touched by Altaïr’s tender actions and gentle words to Kadar. He also remained shocked by the obvious mutual affection between Altaïr and his brother. Yet only a few minutes after the assassin exposed that depth of emotion for Kadar, he had then revealed feelings for Malik. Certainly intense physical attraction.

That memory jolted Malik from the sun warmed lull he had been enjoying. Altaïr pushing back against him, kissing him with equal fervor, fighting for control, both twisting their bodies together, their erections meeting through clothes, rubbing, grinding, desperate for more.

 _Fuck._

How many times did he have to pleasure himself to rid his body of THAT memory?

The raw desire had been hard enough to live with. But it was the final moment of that entire ill-fated encounter that still haunted Malik. He could not erase it from his mind.

As Malik had backed away, rejecting what both so obviously wanted, Altaïr reached out, his longing and vulnerability exposed. And Malik denied him.

How could Malik have turned his back on Altaïr? In doing so he not only drove Altaïr away from him, but he also denied his brother Altaïr’s presence. And that was unforgiveable.

None of this was worth his brother’s peace. With his one arm, he held Kadar against him, tight. “Altaïr... Please return to us.”

#

The diligent attention to each assassination, and the redemption his successes granted him gave Altaïr satisfaction, but little peace. Now, riding south toward Jerusalem, he found his thoughts wholly focused on what awaited him there.

Three weeks was long enough. Every day was too long. He worried for Kadar. And though it unsettled him, he also worried for Malik. But the time away had been necessary. The simple act of carrying out his missions kept him distracted, and granted his heart time to empty itself of any falsehoods.

The truth had indeed become clear. Now, he knew what he wanted. And it was time to return, and face whatever he found when he arrived.

  



	10. Returned (part 10 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 10 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Extreme violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 4,700 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


 **Returned** – part ten

Wrapped in the soft air of the warm summer evening, Altaïr stood on the bureau’s rooftop and soaked in the magic of Jerusalem after dark. From here, above the city, lights spread out at his feet, a shining carpet. Arching overhead, endless stars glittered in the night sky, glorious and untouchable. To remain caught between these worlds would have been easy. But before he even passed through the city gates, his choice had already been made.

Through the darkness he dropped down, silent, into the bureau’s courtyard. The fountain splashed gently, same as when it had witnessed the life altering moment there just over three weeks before.

Standing at the fountain, Altaïr watched the water fall, droplets catching any bit of light in the darkness, and reflecting it back as scattered stars. From behind, a footstep fell. He continued watching the water, allowing the tranquil sound to envelop him in calm.

“You’ve returned,” Malik said.

His voice was quiet, free of any tension. Three weeks would have been a long time to carry that much anger. But what had the passage of time done to Malik’s desire? Altaïr knew what it had done to his. Just hearing Malik’s voice kindled the spark that weeks apart had not extinguished. It now smoldered within him. He swallowed, hard, unable to speak.

When he did not respond, Malik continued, “You left without a word to Kadar. He misses you, and is still uncertain you were ever here for him at all.” He rested his hand on Altaïr’s shoulder. “No shame? Perhaps the shame is yours.”

Altaïr stared at the bubbling water. For leaving Kadar the way he did, he did feel shame. Just then, he wanted to be at Kadar’s side, to offer reassurance. But so too did he yearn for Malik. Perhaps Malik also felt shame for what had happened between them. Perhaps the shame was shared. “Ours?” he wondered, aloud.

“No. No shame. Not for me Altaïr.”

In response, Altaïr reached up, passing lightly over Malik’s hand where it still rested on his shoulder. He grasped his hood and pushed it back, slipping it off his head. As he began turning, Malik’s hand guided him around.

No longer hiding any of himself, now fully exposed, Altaïr faced Malik.

Their eyes met, and for Altaïr, time stopped.

In Malik’s steady gaze, those intense dark eyes, he found he was not alone in revealing himself on this night. The raw desire wound tightly with anger had gone from Malik. Replacing those twisted feelings was something more. Desire, yes. But Altaïr sensed deep passion, edged with a profound sense of calm, of rightness.

Or was this simply his imagination? All that he now wanted, projected onto Malik?

Then Malik lifted his hand away from Altaïr’s shoulder. Slowly, he trailed his fingertips up along Altaïr’s neck, until they rested on his cheek.

Altaïr waited, his body coiling tight. Had he been wrong?

Malik said nothing. He simply stood there, his hand against Altaïr’s face, staring with those dark eyes.

Now the leap of faith was Altaïr’s to make. Barely breathing, he leaned forward, not breaking their mutual gaze. Knowing there was no way back, he closed his eyes and touched his lips against Malik’s.

Malik slid his hand around, cupping the back of Altaïr’s head, firmly, pressing their mouths together. Then he parted his lips. Altaïr accepted his kiss. But this was no violent intrusion as it had been the first time Malik kissed him. This time their tongues met gently, at first. Then Malik closed their bodies together, and began pushing Altaïr back, toward the wall. Never breaking their kiss, Altaïr willingly stepped back, needing to feel Malik again take control. Both moaned, softly, as their erections met through layers of clothing. Then the wall stopped them.

This he had been imagining during the long nights alone...

Still moaning into their kiss, he brought both arms up around Malik’s waist and rolled his hips, rubbing their erections together. Abruptly, Malik pulled his mouth away. “Not here,” he said, taking Altaïr’s hand in his, and tugging him away from the wall. “Come.”

Malik led him into the bureau workroom. He released Altaïr, then, one handed, lit a small lamp on the desk. The pale yellow flame barely broke through the darkness, casting a faint but warm glow throughout the room. “Your leg?” he asked, while he backed toward the bedchamber.

“Healing.” Altaïr did not bother to explain that he needed the wound sutured again when he had arrived at Masyaf.

“Good. Kadar fell asleep just before you arrived. He’ll not wake for hours. From here we’ll know if he has a nightmare, or needs us. Wait here while I check on him.”

Altaïr watched Malik disappear into the bedchamber. Part of him wanted to follow, to see Kadar resting peacefully. But his body now controlled him, shrieking for Malik’s embrace. He quickly opened the buckles in his vambraces. While he slipped off his back scabbard, Malik reappeared, clutching a pile of cushions. Without looking at Altaïr, he tossed them onto the floor. “Need more,” he said, again leaving Altaïr alone in the workroom.

Altaïr finished removing his weapons. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Seemed Malik was not alone in his nerves.

Soon, Malik returned with another armful of cushions and a silk blanket thrown over one shoulder. He knelt, and arranged a bed on the floor. Off to the side he placed two bottles. One Altaïr recognized as hashish oil. The other he did not know. But he guessed. And that sent ripples through the need already pooled in his groin.

Malik stood and reached his hand out. Altaïr accepted, tightening his grip, drawing them together. Their lips met first, then their bodies.

All the suppressed passion between them ignited, flaring, melting away the past.

Desperate now to remove all barriers between them, Altaïr shoved the black robe off Malik’s shoulders. And Malik responded by lifting the white assassin’s tunic, pulling it over Altaïr’s head, then throwing it aside. Now, half undressed, they fell onto the cushions, kissing, legs entwined, their erections straining, rubbing through fabric, desperate for freedom.

Quickly, each stripped the other of their remaining clothes. Altaïr was surprised how deftly Malik undressed him with only one hand. But that was nothing compared to the marvel now before him.

Breathless, Altaïr kneeled across from Malik, his eyes drinking in every bit of this man who would soon become his lover. The faint glow from the lamp enhanced the beauty of Malik’s lean body, his defined muscles, the flat plain of his stomach. Strong still, every bit the powerful assassin. He had not let his body go after losing his arm. Altaïr anticipated the feel of him, all hard and lean and muscled, against his own body, and reached out, closing his hand around Malik’s arm.

Malik turned his head away, slightly. But just enough. Altaïr flinched, suddenly realizing how Malik must have felt, baring himself this way.

He slid his left hand up, and traced it across Malik’s chest. As he neared Malik’s left side, he slowed, then gradually brushed his three fingertips over what remained of Malik’s left arm. Malik looked down at Altaïr’s hand where it rested, but did not pull away. He sighed, then lifted his face.

Altaïr leaned forward, looking into Malik’s eyes. “Our scars... our flaws. They are part of who we are. I want you. All of you Malik.”

“No shame?” Malik asked, his whisper rough with emotion.

“None.”

Malik touched Altaïr’s left hand, rubbing across the gap where the third finger was missing. Then he traced down the scar marring Altaïr’s face and lips. He paused there. Altaïr drew his lips together, kissing Malik’s fingertip, then parted them, taking Malik’s finger into his mouth.

He sucked, gently, swirling his tongue around the sensitive fingertip, while watching Malik’s eyes darken with need. Even performing so simple an act also inflamed Altaïr’s own desire. He kept sucking, staring at Malik, teasing, knowing neither could take this for long.

“Enough,” Malik said, then jerked his finger out and crushed his mouth against Altaïr’s.

Together, they fell back on the cushions, on their sides, again lost in each other’s kiss. As he expected, Altaïr nearly exploded when Malik’s naked body pressed against his. Their cocks, now free, met, and he gasped, thrusting for more friction. As he reached down, preparing to grab both their lengths, Malik pushed his hand away.

Breathing heavily, his dark eyes barely visible in the faint lamplight, Malik ordered, “Turn... around... Want you in my mouth...”

Altaïr willingly spun around, aching to taste Malik. He felt Malik’s arm clamp around his waist, and suddenly his cock was engulfed. He threw his head back, savoring the tight, wet heat. Then he opened his mouth, and dragged his tongue up Malik’s cock, teasing. But any thought of prolonging the torment vanished as Malik began sucking him, hard and deep. He followed, taking in all of Malik’s length, and giving the same pleasure he received. But he wanted to give more. He pulled his head back and wetted his finger. While continuing to take Malik deep into his mouth, licking him, sucking him, and nearly mad from Malik doing the same in return, he reached around and very slowly pressed his finger up into Malik. Malik pushed back, taking it all, and moaning against Altaïr’s cock. The vibration nearly sent Altaïr over the edge.

No way was he going to last like this.

Quickly, he pulled himself out of that indescribable heaven while keeping Malik closed between the twin pleasures he was performing. Then he turned, never lifting his mouth away. Kneeling between Malik’s legs, his own cock now abandoned but aching, he slid a second finger in Malik, simultaneously deep throating him.

Malik arched off the cushions, his hand slamming down on Altaïr’s head, fingers clutching in Altaïr’s hair. Then he guided Altaïr, pushing down, pulling back, taking Altaïr’s mouth hard, while Altaïr thrust two fingers into him, curling them in, touching exactly where he knew Malik would lose all control.

“Fuck Altaïr... Fuuuck...” Malik groaned, through clenched teeth. His body shuddered, then seized as he began to climax in Altaïr’s mouth.

While kneeling there, with Malik’s cock releasing down his throat, Altaïr sucked gently now, swallowing every bit of Malik’s seed. And he watched what lay before him.

Seeing Malik like this, sprawled across the cushions, bathed in golden light, his face frozen in ecstasy, was more glorious than any sunrise, any perfect killing, anything. Nothing compared.

And Altaïr nearly came without any touch at all.

While lying back on the cushions, Malik fumbled beside him. He tossed one of the bottles of oil toward Altaïr. Reflex shot Altaïr’s hand out and he caught it. He stared at the bottle, then up at Malik.

 _Did he mean?_

Still winded, Malik gasped, “Finish... Inside me.”

Altaïr shook his head. This he did not anticipate. Maybe someday. But not yet. No matter what they felt, such trust needed time.

Malik reached out and dug his fingers into Altaïr’s arm. “Do it Altaïr! Please...”

An order. And a plea. Both stole the last of Altaïr’s hesitation.

Aroused beyond all rational thought, he yanked the top from the bottle. He dribbled a few drops of oil into his hand, smoothed it down along his erection, then oiled his fingers. He slid them easily in, quickly ensuring Malik was sufficiently slick.

He took his oiled cock into his hand and stroked it once. More and he’d come right there. Holding his breath, he leaned forward and pressed himself into Malik.

 _Hot.... Tight. So tight..._

Altaïr bit his lip, fighting against every part of his being screaming for more, more. But he was too aroused, too far gone. He pumped his hips twice, shallow, then thrust deep. Beneath him, Malik pulled one leg back and lifted up, meeting the thrust, hard, forcing Altaïr in deeper, deeper. All the way. And Altaïr lost control.

The intense orgasm crashed into him, rolling through him, blinding him, suspending him in exquisite, agonizing, pleasure.

He might have screamed. He didn’t know.

As he came down, his heart still racing, he collapsed onto Malik’s chest. He lay there, unmoving, spent. Numb.

Malik looped his arm around Altaïr, then pulled his slack body up until he lay with his face tucked against Malik’s neck. In this safe embrace, with their legs entwined, Altaïr found himself in a place more perfect than he could have imagined.

As he drifted to sleep, he felt Malik pull the blanket over them, then a light kiss upon his cheek.

  
#

Lying beneath the silk blanket, with Altaïr asleep against him and their bodies entwined, Malik wondered if he suffered lapses in reality similar to Kadar. Because this was not real.

The small lamp still burned, its soft glow filling the workroom with barely enough light to see by. Looking down, he saw that yes, the man he held was indeed Altaïr. The arrogant, self-absorbed assassin who had caused Malik such grief and aggravation.

Remembering only a short time ago, Malik shivered. Altaïr proved an unselfish, thoughtful lover who seemed more focused on giving pleasure than receiving. And oddly submissive to Malik’s desires. Even when finally giving in to his own need, Altaïr allowed Malik control. He found his pleasure deep inside Malik only after Malik made it clear that was HIS desire.

Malik felt his cock stir while thinking of Altaïr’s mouth, his lips, tongue and open throat, his fingers knowing that perfect spot, his cock buried in Malik, thrusting only three times before a total loss of control. And now Malik wanted that same pleasure from Altaïr. He wondered if Altaïr had ever been touched there. Did it matter? Malik would show him nothing gave a man more power than to _allow_ another man inside him. Lost in these thoughts, he felt Altaïr stretch against him, waking from the short rest.

Altaïr lifted his head. His amber eyes were soft as they found Malik. But he said nothing.

Malik reached out, and pulled their faces together, kissing Altaïr, gently, without urgency.

Rising to their kiss, Altaïr nearly sat upright, and began sliding into Malik’s lap. Abruptly, he pushed away. “I need to see Kadar. Now.”

Malik understood, though his body did not. Looking down at Altaïr’s erection, it seemed their bodies were in total agreement. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, while staring at Altaïr, ran his tongue over his fingertips, slowly. Then he reached down, and traced them over the head of Altaïr’s cock, leaving damp trails.

“Stop,” Altaïr growled, shoving his hand away. “If you do that, we’ll never get up.” But he smiled as he stood, then reached down to Malik. Malik took his offered hand, fighting the urge to yank the assassin back down onto the cushions. Instead, he allowed Altaïr to tug him to his feet. While Altaïr pulled on his trousers, Malik simply wrapped his own body in the silk blanket. He had no intention of clothing himself again, at least not before dawn. And that was a long way off.

Altaïr took the lamp, and together, they silently entered the bedchamber.

Kadar slept on his side, covered with a lightweight blanket, knees drawn up nearly to his chest. One hand clutched the blanket against him. In the past three weeks, he usually fell asleep this way, tightly curled up as if protecting himself.

Altaïr slowed, then paused, whispering, “He’s sleeping so soundly. I don’t want to disturb him.”

“We won’t. The hashish oil keeps him asleep, unless he has a nightmare.” Malik knew Altaïr needed this time, even if Kadar was not awake. He could still hear the assassin reassuring Kadar three weeks before. There was no doubt despite Altaïr becoming Malik’s lover, he also held a great amount of emotion for Kadar. So Malik put aside his own desire to drag Altaïr back to their temporary bed in the workroom so they could resume exploring each other. At least for now.

Beside Kadar’s bed he piled the few extra cushions not in the workroom. “Here, sit. We can watch over him for a while.”

Malik propped himself against the wall. Altaïr placed the lamp down and sat beside him. How many times had they watched over Kadar like this before? No, not like this. Altaïr edged closer to Malik, so their bodies touched. Then he sighed. “Every moment away, I worried.”

Though he knew what motivated Altaïr’s comment, Malik still found it annoying. “You knew I’d care for him.”

“Of course. I’m not questioning you Malik. It’s him, what scars he has that we cannot see.” Altaïr leaned forward, reaching out as if he wanted to touch Kadar. “How is he? Really?”

“Healing. When he is aware I try to help him use his mind. Physically, he’s doing better than the surgeon anticipated. Most of the wounds have healed, or are healing. He’s weak, but with my help he’s walked to the courtyard twice. He seems happy in the sun.”

Malik paused. He knew he was not being completely honest. And Altaïr deserved the truth. “But he’s still so lost. The nightmares are violent, so I’ve been dosing him with hashish oil to make sure he sleeps. During the day reality seems to escape him much of the time. Sometimes when he’s awake he drifts away, staring like he’s dead. And he misses you, even though he’s convinced you were never here at all.”

“I missed him as well.” Altaïr shifted on the cushions, away from Malik. “You need to know...” Pausing, he drew his knees up and clasped both arms around them. “In the months before Solomon’s Temple we were intimate a few times.”

In his chest, Malik’s heart twisted. He suspected. No, he _knew_. This was not a secret, though it could have been brushed off as gossip. Back then, when he heard the rumors, he hated the mere thought of Kadar touching Altaïr. But since Altaïr had returned Kadar, those rumors hovered in the background of his mind, distant, but there. And after what he saw between them only three weeks ago, he accepted the truth. But he had not expected Altaïr to admit it, not this way.

“You are not going to scream at me?” Altaïr asked, pulling his knees even tighter against his chest.

 _He’s scared? He’s scared..._

Seeing Altaïr begin to withdraw from him, Malik found the only answer he could give. “The past is gone Altaïr.”

“Is it? I took advantage of how much he looked up to me. I regret that, deeply. But the past is not responsible for how I feel about Kadar now. I want you to know that.”

And Malik believed him. But he wasn’t sure Altaïr believed his own words. “Are you certain? Guilt is powerful...”

Altaïr sighed, then shook his head. “I’m not certain of anything when it regards my heart Malik.”

“No. I suppose not.” Malik found himself begin to smile as he continued, “You’ve only just discovered it.”

Still watching Kadar, Altaïr did not see Malik smile. He edged farther away. Malik grabbed his arm and tugged him back. “That was not meant as an insult. I’m serious Altaïr. You are a different man now.”

And then, finally, Altaïr looked up. When he saw Malik’s smile, he opened his arms from around his knees, unfolded himself, then rested his hand on Malik’s cheek. “So are you.” He lifted his hand away, replacing it with his lips. Softly, he kissed Malik, then sat back.

In those amber eyes watching him, Malik found the same desire, tempered with trepidation, he too felt. Neither of them were any good at communicating, but it had to be done. He took a deep breath, then asked, “What now for us?”

“I came back for you both,” Altaïr answered, suddenly sounding quite sure of himself.

No surprise to Malik. “After hearing you that last day before you left I know you have feelings for each other.”

Altaïr kneeled between Malik’s legs, and looked at him with those amber eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “What I feel for each of you is not the same. You and I are equals Malik. Kadar is different. I want to protect him, to comfort him. Though I will not deny that I desire you both. If Kadar is ever able to share himself with me that way, how will you live with it?”

Now Altaïr looked at him closer, with that eerie stare, those amber eyes seeming to penetrate right into his soul.

Could he live with sharing this man with his brother? Or was it the other way around? Sharing his brother with this man? “I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully. “For Kadar I will do anything. But what of his feelings?”

Altaïr sighed. “This is not going to be easy.” Then, as if he had enough of the difficult conversation he relaxed against Malik, half stretching across his lap.

Suddenly, Malik realized this was exactly what he wanted. What challenge was this before all the others they had faced in the past and would again in the future? “Life isn’t easy Altaïr. But to turn away from the good in our lives out of fear is foolish.”

For a moment, Altaïr looked up, tilting his head, obviously considering Malik’s words. He then pushed off Malik, and stood, reaching his hand down. “Then we will make this work,” he said, with absolute certainty.

And now, after all the years of rivalry and tension, Malik welcomed his self-assured arrogance.

Altaïr had not changed completely, and for that he was grateful. Because deep down, Malik respected Altaïr’s strength and his power. The assassin’s harsh edges had been honed by experience, and by learning the meaning of humility and compassion.

Together, they would help Kadar heal.

Together.

Malik accepted Altaïr’s hand, and the assassin pulled him up from the cushions. “We _will_ make this work,” Malik agreed, though his heart did not share the same confidence in his voice.

Arm in arm, they paused, watching Kadar sleep.

Altaïr turned his head, and touched his lips to Malik’s ear. “He’s going to be well again. I promise...”

#

Back in the workroom, Malik lay in the cushions, thinking only of this moment. The future could wait.

He kept the silk blanket draped over the lower half of his body, and watched Altaïr standing at the desk, taking a long, deep swallow of water. In the soft lamplight, the assassin’s bare chest glowed, lean, yet sculpted, and even more perfect for the scars decorating his pale skin.

Altaïr had been right. Their scars and flaws were part of who they were. But Malik still could not believe how sensitive Altaïr had been about what remained of his left arm.

As Altaïr lowered himself to the cushions, he held out the bottle of hashish oil. “Pain?”

This man? Thoughtful and considerate? Malik bit his lip, trying not to smile at the absurdity of it all. He took the hashish oil, then set it aside. “Not tonight,” he said, reaching for the other bottle from where it had been tossed away earlier. The glass was still slick from when Altaïr had opened it. “But this?”

Now Altaïr smiled. Not soft. Almost predatory. “And which of us will need it this time?” he asked, removing his trousers, then crawling on his hands and knees across the cushions, until he straddled Malik. Despite the blanket over Malik’s lap, there was no hiding his cock’s immediate response. Not when Altaïr tilted his hips back, then forward, slowly rubbing his own erection over the silk.

This seemed the moment to ask what he had been wondering all night. More than all night. For weeks. He blurted out, “Have you...?” Seeing Altaïr’s eyes narrow, he cut off his words.

“Have I what?” Altaïr asked, tugging the blanket away and revealing Malik’s cock. He reached down and closed his hand around them both. Too gently, he slid his hand up, then down. A tease.

“Uh... I...” Malik stuttered. He never stuttered.

Fuck. How was he supposed to think like this? Altaïr stopped the maddening motion. Quickly, Malik said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Altaïr’s eyes widened. “You think I’m untouched?” Then he tossed his head back and laughed. Never had Malik hear the stoic assassin laugh. And Malik found himself unable to deny his own mirth at having asked the ridiculous question. Maybe it was the late hour, or the undeniable stress both experienced for weeks, or the life changing revelations that night. Whatever it was, Malik too laughed.

But their laughter lasted only a moment, and they quieted, until both fell silent. Malik rested his hand lightly over Altaïr’s heart.

And Altaïr placed his hand over Malik’s, pressing both against his bare chest. “I want you inside me. I want all of you Malik.”

They kissed, a slow, sensual exploration that had been impossible earlier during their frantic first joining. Altaïr remained on his knees, straddling Malik, who sat upright against the workroom wall.

With a smile tugging the corners of his lips, Altaïr opened the bottle of oil. “Hold out your hand,” he said. Malik did as he asked, and Altaïr dribbled the oil onto his palm, until a small pool formed. He rubbed his own palm into the pooled oil while looking into Malik’s eyes. Then he took both their hands and glided them down, then up, the shaft of Malik’s cock. Malik hissed, and squeezed his eyes closed, savoring the intense pleasure, the feel of Altaïr guiding both their hands along his length.

“No more Altaïr...” he pleaded.

Altaïr nodded, his own face creased with building need. Then he slid forward, planted one hand flat against the wall over Malik’s shoulder, and raised himself up over Malik’s cock. He held his body there, every muscle defined by the blood coursing through him, the fine sheen of sweat, and by the strength it took to remain suspended.

Malik reached around his waist, then dragged an oiled finger down his ass, lingering in the cleft, teasing. He slid his finger through the tight opening, carefully, not wanting to cause any pain. Altaïr inhaled, sharply. His body quivered with the exertion needed to keep himself hovering.

As Malik pushed his finger farther in, Altaïr whispered, “Another.” His hips tilted forward, slightly, his cock now close enough for Malik to reach with his mouth. Malik licked his lips, moistening them. He dragged his tongue over the head of Altaïr’s cock, then closed his lips around it while easing a second finger into Altaïr. Then, while gently massaging Altaïr’s erection with his mouth, lips and tongue, he pulled both fingers out, slightly, hitting Altaïr in just the right place. Altaïr moaned, a deep, rapturous sound. He pulled free of Malik’s mouth, breathing heavy, his body shaking. “Now... Now Malik.”

Malik withdrew his fingers, and held his erection steady. He also held his breath. Nothing was more glorious than this sight unfolding before him. Altaïr gripped both hands on his shoulders, then, trembling, lowered himself onto Malik’s waiting cock. Slow, gradual at first, and silent. Then, with every breath out, he moaned. His eyes rolled back, and he bit his lip, taking all of Malik inside him.

Watching Altaïr’s blush touched face, Malik hung at the very edge, gripped by Altaïr’s tight heat, feeling him move, not wanting to move himself for fear of falling over that edge.

He clutched his hand in Altaïr’s hair and pulled their mouths together.

Locked in a deep, sensual kiss, they made love, slowly, with intimacy Malik never imagined could exist. But as they both approached their climaxes, Altaïr sped up, riding Malik harder, while Malik gripped his cock, stroking him. Soon, their lips broke apart, separating their mouths while each gasped for air, nearly breathless.

Altaïr’s fingers dug into Malik’s shoulders. “Deeper...”

Malik tightened his ass and shoved himself up, hard. Altaïr threw his head back. “Yes...! Ahhhh...”

And as Altaïr began to come, moaning, spilling his seed across Malik’s chest, Malik thrust up one last time. Crying out, he lost himself deep inside Altaïr.

  
[   
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	11. Returned (part 11 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 11 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 1,500 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  


 **Returned** – part eleven

Lying beneath his blanket, Kadar rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Again he focused on the two men seated on the nearby cushions, unsure what exactly he was seeing.

Malik, fully dressed.

Altaïr, weaponless, feet bare, wearing only a long tunic and no hood.

It had been days, maybe weeks, since Kadar’s imagination conjured the master assassin, at least in vivid detail like this. Barely breathing, he watched, knowing Altaïr was nothing more than a cruel illusion, but not caring.

Malik bent forward, peering down at Altaïr’s bare leg. “How did I not notice this last night?"

“Distracted?” Altaïr replied.

Tracing his fingers along the jagged red scar, Malik scowled. “What fool fixed the ripped sutures? Horrendous work.”

“Do I care?”

“ _I_ do, since _I_ originally sewed you up.” Malik sounded less annoyed than his words would suggest. From a plate next to him he selected a plump fig. He held it out to Altaïr. But Altaïr did not accept it. Instead, he leaned closer, parting his lips, taking half of it into his mouth, then biting down. Malik took the other half and slowly slipped it into his own mouth. Not once did their eye contact waver.

Kadar felt something in his chest. Pain. Not physical. Confused, he quickly shut his eyes. But only for a moment. He could not help but look again.

On the cushions, Malik and Altaïr shared fruit and bread from the plate, in silence. But Malik always avoided Altaïr unless they were forced to work together, and times even hated him. Them sitting like this, eating together, was proof enough that Kadar was seeing more lies. Still, he could not tear his attention away.

Altaïr. Only half clothed, without the hood concealing his eyes. Kadar shivered. Those amber eyes haunted him. Long ago they were cold and distant, while watching him on his knees. That had been real. But in his dream, during the wonderful vision that found him in Altaïr’s arms, the amber softened, fired with a warm glow that told him Altaïr cared. Cared the way Kadar had always wanted.

Remembering how safe he had felt in Altaïr’s embrace, even though none of it was real, he wrapped his arms around himself, and sighed.

“Kadar?” Malik called out. At the same time, Altaïr dropped a half eaten fig and surged forward on the cushions. Malik threw an arm out, holding him back.

Kadar pressed his hands over his eyes, desperate to clear his vision. Had he not been tormented enough by the specter of Altaïr? By the false memory of being held and comforted by him?

Shaking, he rolled away, turning his back against the lies.

“I’m here. I’ve returned.”

That voice. Quiet. Reassuring. How badly he wanted to believe it was real.

But it was not. Just a cruel, vicious lie. Why did his mind keep doing this? Why? He smacked the side of his head, trying to make it stop.

A hand closed on his shoulder. “Turn over Kadar. This _is_ Altaïr. He has come back to us. He’s real.”

Clutching his arms over his head, he pulled away. Where was the darkness? Why could it not take him away as it had so often before? “Make it stop Malik... Please,” he begged his brother. “Give me more hashish. Anything. Just make it stop.”

Then Altaïr kneeled before him. With Malik at his back, there was no escape.

“Do you remember the last time I was here with you?”

Remember? It was all he thought about. How vicious and cruel for his own broken mind to throw it at him like this.

Altaïr eased himself down from his knees, and sat on Kadar’s cushions. Close. So close. “I held you. That was real,” he said, taking Kadar’s hand in his and squeezing gently. “This is real.”

Kadar wanted to snatch his hand back. But Altaïr’s touch was warm, and steady, and how badly he needed this. Too badly. He lived only a mere breath from losing himself completely. Every day he struggled to keep his mind from crumbling into dust. The darkness helped, giving him refuge enough for him to regain some stability. But this. This would kill him. He tipped his head up, and found Altaïr watching him. Worried?

The pain in his chest tightened. Lies. Truth. It all merged into a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, tearing at his heart and mind. He gasped, “I... I cannot bear this.”

“I came back for you Kadar. Will you let me help?” Altaïr asked, opening his arms as he had once before.

And Kadar was powerless to stop himself from falling... Falling into Altaïr’s embrace.

If this was not real, he would never survive.

Arms tightened around him strong and sure. He returned the embrace, clutching Altaïr as if to relax his hold even for a moment would mean his death. Then he began crying, softly at first. But something fractured inside him, slowly splitting him apart, then shattering. Feeling like he had broken into a thousand shards of glass, he sobbed, deep, guttural sobs fed by fear more terrifying than anything he felt while held captive.

In his ear, Altaïr murmured, “You’re safe... Malik and I are here for you. Safe...”

  
#

  
Crouched only the length of his arm away, Malik watched the poignant moment Kadar finally believed Altaïr had returned, real, not some delusion created by his damaged mind. Somehow Altaïr broke through, gaining Kadar’s trust when it seemed impossible. If Malik needed any further proof Altaïr would help Kadar, here it was before him.

Kadar wept like a child now, held tight in Altaïr’s arms. Malik wiped the sleeve of his robe over an errant tear sliding down his own face. As children, neither of them ever exposed such weakness. But given Kadar’s constant struggle to fully grasp reality, Malik found only relief at this complete breakdown. Maybe now Kadar could truly begin to heal.

Altaïr raised his head. Keeping Kadar against him, he opened one hand to Malik. “Hold him with me. Please?”

The request unsettled Malik. But he found himself unable to deny Altaïr. He knelt behind Kadar, and very carefully touched his shoulder, not wanting to frighten him.

Kadar jerked his face up from Altaïr’s chest and looked back at Malik. Tears still filled his eyes, making the blue seem even darker, like the deepest sea.

“M... Malik?” he stammered while trying to catch his breath. “Is... this real?” He sounded like an innocent child. Like he had once been, and perhaps would always be in Malik’s mind.

Malik nodded, finding himself smiling, “It is Kadar. All of it. Real.”

And Kadar smiled back, a tiny smile, barely there. Then he again tucked his face against Altaïr. Over his head, Malik and Altaïr caught each other’s eyes, and Malik swore tears tracked down the assassin’s face. Or maybe it was just a trick of the morning light.

Malik then closed his brother between his chest and Altaïr’s, sitting so that his legs curled around Kadar and Altaïr both. His arm he stretched around, until his fingers found the soft skin on the back of Altaïr’s neck. He left them there, gently stroking.

Finally, he rested his head on Kadar’s shoulder, lips touching his ear. “Peace brother. We’re here for you...”

The jagged breaths left from Kadar sobbing eased, gradually, and he began to relax, as if he had fallen asleep. Altaïr shifted, slipping one arm free and embracing Malik, completely closing the circle around Kadar.

Without taking his head from Kadar’s shoulder, Malik opened his eyes.

Altaïr watched Kadar’s peaceful face where it rested between them. The gaze in those amber eyes seemed lit from within, reflecting caring and affection for Kadar. He tipped his head up, and found Malik watching him. The gentle warmth remained. But through it now flared a trace of the passion they had shared the previous night.

In this contrast, Malik saw evidence of what Altaïr had described. His feelings for Kadar were obviously those of caring and a need to protect. Feelings Malik knew so well, feelings of a brother. Sitting there holding Kadar, Altaïr displayed no trace of the physical desire he claimed to have for him. But desire now flamed in his eyes while gazing at Malik. At some point, Altaïr would have to deal with his desire for each of them. So would Malik, and ultimately Kadar.

Just then, Malik closed his mind to that inevitable future, and allowed recent memories to flow into his mind. The raw passion and profound intimacy shared. He returned Altaïr’s gaze, knowing when darkness fell and Kadar slept safe, alone, they would again return to each other’s arms.

Altaïr caressed Malik’s back, slow, gentle motions mirroring those of Malik’s fingertips rubbing the back of Altaïr’s neck. Neither spoke, simply because they needed no words. And all the while, Kadar slept quietly between them.

  
[   
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	12. Returned (part 12 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 12 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 3,700 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


 **Returned** – part twelve

The Templar laughed. “How do you like my friends, whore?”

Kadar kept his eyes closed. By now he learned that speaking at all, or even acting alive, would reward him with worse cruelty.

“I’m taking to you. Show respect, or I’ll make you yearn for this pleasant life we’ve given you.”

 _Pleasant life?_

He had lost all sense of time, but knew weeks must have passed since they branded him. Lying like this, with his back flat against the table, chained tightly down, only worsened the ongoing pain.

Another spoke, also in Arabic, “Who wants to fuck a corpse?”

Then a third voice, this one new to his ears, “Force him to climax. That will get his attention.”

“We’ve tried. Our pretty little whore is impotent.”

“Ah, but perhaps you were too rough with him. Humiliation can be caused by more subtle methods. Like this...”

Fingers caressed up Kadar’s legs. Reflex tensed him completely. No matter how many times they used him, the pain never relented.

“Relax assassin. I’m going to make you feel pleasure.”

Those fingers crawled across his groin, then closed around his limp penis. At first, Kadar felt nothing. How could he? But the man’s hand stroked slowly, coaxing life out of a piece of flesh Kadar thought long dead.

“Like this, do you? Me touching you? But you also hate it, don’t you? You hate that we have this much control over you.”

The man was right, he hated this. “Stop,” he moaned, his voice jagged from days of screaming. But he responded to the disgusting touch, and now rose fully erect.

“Ah! He does have a voice. My hand is tight, and feels good, doesn’t it?”

The hand quickened, stroking fast now, gripping hard. “You will come for us. Let us hear your voice, whore.”

“No... Stop... Stop...” he pleaded, writhing on the table, jerking at the shackles holding him down.

Kadar fought this most vile trespass, but nothing could halt his body’s inevitable reaction. “No... ! NO!!!” Even as he screamed no, his body betrayed him. The orgasm stabbed through him, sharp and rapid, giving only physical release, then retreating, taking with it any last will to fight.

“Well. He is quite lovely lying here, panting, covered with his own seed, isn’t he? Shall we have _our_ pleasure now?”

Then hands, so many hands, grabbed him. Loosened the chains. Flipped him over. This he knew, and shut down his mind before they began using him in every depraved way possible.

Drifting, partly insulated from his body and mouth being violated yet again, he found he could not lose himself completely. The self hate was now too great. His body had responded to them. They forced pleasure from him.

After all the pain and horror and defilement it endured, how could his body have betrayed him this humiliating way?

Through these twisted, disturbing thoughts ripped agonizing pain, worse than ever, as two men forced themselves inside him at the same time. He screamed, hearing himself shriek in agony, pleading with them. But they only laughed.

Inside his mind, or maybe aloud, Kadar prayed they would kill him. But they didn’t. They kept hurting him. And he kept screaming.

#

Two nights after Altaïr returned, while he slept in Malik’s embrace, hidden behind the bureau desk, screams jolted them both awake.

Each threw a blanket over their unclothed bodies, and together ran into the bedchamber.

Caught in a nightmare, Kadar writhed on the floor. “No...! Please... Please... STOP!!! NO!!! No...” His howls of pain echoed through the chamber, slowly dying, replaced by pitiful whimpers, as if he had been tortured beyond the strength to endure any more.

“no... no more... please... no...”

Malik lit a lamp, and they both knelt beside him. “Kadar,” Altaïr said, calm, yet firm. “Wake up.” Then Malik continued, “Wake up Kadar. Wake. Up.”

Together, they called Kadar back from whatever hell the nightmare had plunged him into.

He awoke, abruptly. In the faint lamplight, his pupils were blown open, black stealing away all of the blue. He looked utterly lost, dazed.

Altaïr glanced at Malik. Neither touched Kadar, knowing contact could hurt rather than help while he emerged from the depths of his nightmare. But they reached for each other. Malik’s grip on Altaïr’s hand, like iron, yet shaking, reflected the worry they both felt.

“Are you with us Kadar?”

Staring at the lamp’s flame, he whispered, “I forgot... I forgot they did that.”

The grief echoed in each word tore into Altaïr’s heart. Beside him, their hands still locked together, Malik inhaled, slowly, as if stalking, prepared to thrust his blade into an unsuspecting target.

How well did Altaïr understand the all consuming desire to kill for what Kadar suffered.

But Kadar needed them both quiet and at peace, not two vengeance driven assassins. He took a very deep breath, then released it slowly, while relaxing his grip on Malik’s hand. They shared a quick glance, reading each other’s thoughts.

And Malik followed Altaïr’s lead, taking a few deep breaths, surrounding himself in calm.

“It’s all right Kadar. It was a nightmare. You’re safe now. We’re here,” Altaïr said, quietly. With Malik’s steadying hold on his one hand, he reached out with the other. He threaded his fingers into Kadar’s hair, gently stroking, offering calm reassurance. “You are safe. Peace Kadar.”

Kadar blinked. Then he cringed, jerking his head from beneath Altaïr’s hand in his hair. “No. Don’t. Don’t touch me. Please... No...”

Now the look Altaïr and Malik shared was one of intense concern. Though Kadar had not been completely lucid since Altaïr’s return, he had been very willing to accept all physical contact from Altaïr. This reaction, rejecting Altaïr completely, neither of them had seen before.

Malik tried now, releasing his hand from Altaïr’s and lightly placing it on his brother’s arm. Again Kadar reacted, violently this time, pulling away. “No! Don’t touch me!”

“Do you know us Kadar?” Altaïr asked, already knowing the answer.

The blank stare implied that he was trapped, lost somewhere between the nightmare and reality. Lying on the bare floor, he clutched the blanket around himself, and closed his eyes, tight, his face creasing with the effort.

On his knees Malik backed away. “We’re not helping. Maybe we should just let him be for now.” He stood, and began collecting Kadar’s bed cushions from where they had been strewn everywhere during his nightmare. He placed them neatly beside Kadar, then collapsed, lying down, still wrapped in the blanket he had thrown around himself earlier.

Altaïr sat behind him, then also stretched out. He pulled Malik into his arms.

On their sides, Altaïr at Malik’s back, curled around him, they watched Kadar for any signs of another nightmare.

Altaïr despised feeling incapable of making it all right. He also hated knowing Malik was hurting too. Brushing his mouth against Malik’s ear, a gesture of comfort, not of desire, he said, “Keep this, what we share, close to you.”

Malik sighed, then pressed Altaïr’s hand to his heart. “Right now this is all I have.”

“No... You have your brother. We can get him through this.”

“He’s never going to be the same.”

“No. But neither are we. And he has us both.”

Now it was Malik’s hair he ran his fingers through, offering comfort. And while holding Malik against him, both facing Kadar, it seemed this was the best he could do for any of them that night.

#

When he returned to Jerusalem, Altaïr thought the hardest battle had been won. He knew what he wanted, and when Malik accepted him into his life, and Kadar’s life, it seemed all of Altaïr’s desires would be granted. But for Kadar, healing had not proved a straight path.

The frequency of Kadar’s nightmares meant giving up sleeping in the workroom behind the desk. Not that the space there was adequate for two men, even if they did sleep tangled together.

Now, two weeks after the first intense nightmare, Altaïr piled his weapons by the sleeping cushions and prepared for another vigil through the darkness. Next to him, close but not touching, Malik too lay down. He sighed, but said nothing.

The days of work, and the continuing care Kadar required exhausted them both. The time they stole together certainly did not help. Neither could keep their desire from controlling them at least once every day. Altaïr had started to wonder if he could ever have enough of Malik, of kissing him, touching him, tasting him, taking him. He shivered. That night, after Kadar fell asleep, they indulged themselves on the workroom desk before sharing their dinner. And here he was again aroused. He pulled at Malik’s robe.

Without looking away from Kadar, Malik waved his hand. “Not here.”

Peering over Malik’s shoulder Altaïr could see Kadar asleep, his face relaxed, with no sign of impending nightmare. The previous night had been bad, with him waking twice, screaming. So they gave him more hashish oil to ensure he rested for a full night. Despite that, Altaïr should have suppressed his arousal. But after days of stress, combined with his continuing work, and worrying for Kadar, he could not dredge up the discipline to forbid his body what it demanded right now. “He’s asleep, and after all the hashish oil you poured into him, I doubt he’ll wake any time soon.”

“I know, but...” While Malik protested, Altaïr slid close enough to breathe against the back of his neck. “But what?” he whispered, then licked the soft skin there, knowing Malik’s weakness. He reached over Malik’s hip, and pushed aside the black robe, searching for the erection he knew awaited his touch. As his slid his hand over Malik’s cock, trapped beneath trousers, he pressed his own erection against Malik’s ass.

“Fuck Altaïr. Stop it!”

“Make me.”

Malik rolled over, his dark eyes suddenly black. “I’ll make you...”

There, with Kadar sleeping nearby, they lost themselves in each other. They managed to dress after, but forgot their vow to not share sleeping cushions while in the bedchamber. Entwined, they fell asleep.

#

Kadar awoke before the sun’s rise. Dim predawn light filled the bedchamber, making the room appear a muted blend of gray hues instead of vibrant colors. Even the cushion pillowing his face seemed gray, not the vivid lapis he knew it to be.

Across the bedchamber, two men lay together, sleeping. Touching. No. Not touching. Embracing. One in white, on his back. The other in black, face down, half on top of the man in white, as if holding him down. Sashes entangled, red bleached pale in the faint light.

Altaïr?

Malik?

Together?

What dream was this? A nightmare?

But Malik looked so at ease. No worry creased his face while it rested on Altaïr’s shoulder. His arm lay across Altaïr. And one of Altaïr’s arms encircled him, the other flung out to the side. Beckoning.

Together, they looked at peace. Safe. Kadar felt something pressing against his mind. But he ignored it. Always his mind spun and knotted and never stopped, never gave him rest unless plunged into the darkness.

He wanted, needed to feel safe too. Altaïr always made him feel safe. He slid from beneath his blanket, then crawled on his knees to Altaïr’s side.

Opposite Malik, he stretched out on the sleeping cushions, against Altaïr’s open arm, then snugged tight against him. He wrapped one arm around Altaïr’s waist, curling the other into his own chest.

Now both he and Malik lay against Altaïr. Kadar rubbed his face on Altaïr’s white tunic, breathing deep, absorbing this peaceful moment. He needed this comfort so badly, anything to erase the increasing bouts of fear that crippled him every day. He remembered Altaïr held him often. Maybe? His memory tricked him. Maybe not.

But this? This he knew was real. Maybe.

He felt Malik exhale upon his cheek. And under him, Altaïr breathed slowly.

“Kadar?”

He lifted his face, and amber eyes looked down at him. They flickered aside, to Malik, still asleep, then back. Suddenly, Altaïr’s entire body stiffened.

Kadar cringed. Had he done something wrong?

Altaïr lifted his head from the cushion, and touched his lips on Kadar’s head. “Relax... You are safe here.” And then his arm came up, around Kadar, holding him just as he also held Malik.

Then Malik opened his eyes. He flung himself back, rolling off Altaïr and leaping to his feet. “Kadar!” He straightened the black robe fully over his shoulders, then smoothed the wrinkles away. “You should be in your bed!”

Kadar burrowed his head against Altaïr. Why was Malik so angry? Around him he felt Altaïr’s arm tighten, pulling him closer. “He’s fine right here Malik.”

“Not like that,” Malik shot back, his footsteps falling hard on the floor.

Kadar opened his eyes. Malik paced across the bedchamber, and back, his fist clenched. “Not while I am also with you. That is wrong.”

Seeing his brother this way, hearing the anger in his voice, Kadar felt a massive pressure building in his chest. It stole his breath. He pulled free of Altaïr, and crawled backwards. Away from what he so desperately needed, but now understood he could never have.

He was not worthy of Altaïr. Nor was he worthy of Malik. Not after what had been done to him.

But this sudden revelation unearthed a new feeling, a rising heat he had yet to experience. It gathered inside him, centered in his heart, then expanding out, a slow burn fed by all the unjust acts committed against him.

He glared at his brother. “Am I not allowed the same comfort you were getting?”

Malik halted, mid stride. He stared down at Kadar, his eyes widening.

“Am I too dirty, brother? Ruined?”

Now Malik took a step closer, still staring. As he began to speak, Kadar cut him off, nearly shouting. “Am I ruined Malik? Am I ruined because they used me?!”

He felt the fire building, burning away the darkness, sweeping through every part of his being. Anger gave way to white hot rage, incinerating fear and shame.

“Do you know what they did to me? DO YOU?” he screamed, now losing all control, and not caring. Why should he care about anything?

Altaïr now stood beside Malik. They both watched him, their faces blank.

“We know Kadar. None of that matters,” Altaïr said, quietly, his voice empty of any emotion.

None of it mattered? How could Altaïr think that? “Then you don’t know. You don’t know! I’ll tell you!”

An icy calm froze the fury rushing through his veins. He heard his voice speak, as if detached, the words spoken by someone else.

“I was a whore. Their _pretty assassin whore_. That’s what they called me. I kept waiting for the interrogation. It did happen, eventually. But they made it very clear that was not my only purpose. It simply gave them more reason to torture me.”

“Kadar...” Malik began.

Kadar threw his hand up, palm out, shutting his brother up. The sleeve on his tunic slid down. There, the scar from being shackled stared back at him. His stomach turned, fear creeping back into his mind. But still the words flooded out, forcing his story into the silent bedchamber. “This scar? They shackled me. I fought. But there were dozens of them. Every day. Endless. They tortured me with knives and burns and...” he paused, now shaking as the fury again exploded inside him, blinding him to all but the disgusting truth.

“Those filthy motherfucking dogs used me! They kept me in chains. They hurt me. They fucking branded me with this,” he jerked his hand over his shoulder, “this despicable cross. I will bear it for life. They did all this, and worse. If one stood here, I would rip him apart, and smile while walking through his blood!”

Then Kadar noticed the weapons in a pile by the bed. “They didn’t kill me. But I will kill them!” He grabbed a throwing knife, savoring the feel of the handle against his palm. A tiny thrill raced up his spine. It had been too long. He reached back, then flung it at the wall. The stone turned the blade away, and the knife dropped to the floor.

Malik and Altaïr shared a brief glance. He saw it, and knew something passed between them without the need for words.

As Malik edged closer to the weapons, Altaïr said, “You have been avenged. I killed every known guard from the prison. At least those men my informants were able to identify.”

Their attempt at distracting him from the blades, and Altaïr’s noble, but useless vengeance were both laughable. He kicked the pile of weapons away. What good were blades to him? His life as an assassin was over. Never again would he be welcome in the Brotherhood. “You think vengeance makes it all better Altaïr? Nothing will ever take this stain from me. NOTHING!”

Malik knelt in front of him. “Easy Kadar...”

That only riled him further. “Fuck off Malik!” he shouted. “You have no idea how I feel! The anger is boiling in my head, making me dizzy! I want blood! BLOOD!”

Kadar’s vision began to waver, dimming, then becoming unfocused. Head spinning, he slumped onto the cushions and wrapped his arms over his head. Anything to make the buzzing in his ears stop. His mind stumbled, all thoughts dissipating. Overloaded, emotionally shattered, he gave up and shut down completely.

#

Stunned speechless, Malik and Altaïr stood in the bedchamber. They stared down at Kadar, now on the bed cushions, curled into a tight ball, hands over his head, silent.

The unexpected, violent outburst had ended, dissipating as quickly as it began.

Malik crouched, watching his brother’s body convulse with short, shallow breaths. He worried, but dared not make physical contact. Behind him, Altaïr exhaled, “That... That was dangerous.”

He nodded. With Kadar still so mentally unbalanced, such displays of rage might lead to serious problems for all of them. But this was not like Kadar. “I have never known him this angry. He’s always been much more even tempered than I am.”

He glanced back, and found Altaïr picking up the throwing knife from where it landed after Kadar flung it at the wall.

While holding the blade up in the morning light, examining it for damage, he said, “That was more than anger.” Apparently satisfied the knife was intact, he placed it with the others, then knelt beside Malik. “After what he lived through, I’m surprised it took him this long to crack. It’s better than tears, is it not?”

“Maybe. I know I feel better after a good rant. But this was anything but a rant. He hates himself. How are we ever going to heal that?”

“Patience, I think. He needs to know what was done to him makes no difference in how we feel.”

“How can you NOT care about that? He was...” Malik stopped, trying to erase from his mind what Kadar had said. A whore. His brother had been used like a whore. Despite already knowing Kadar was forced, he still felt disgust and revulsion at hearing it directly from Kadar. “You said you feel desire for him. How?”

“He had no control Malik. He didn’t want to be abused like that. What I feel...” Altaïr paused, draping one arm over Malik’s shoulders. “It’s complicated. And nothing like what I feel for you. I told you this before.”

Malik nodded. He understood all that. But knowing in his head did not translate to his heart, or his reactions. Around his shoulders, Altaïr’s arm tightened.

“If he will allow me, perhaps I can give him back some dignity. Show him he’s not ruined. Remind him that life can again give him happiness. Because Malik, if together we don’t pick him up, he might fall and never survive. What if he turned that blade on himself?”

No. Not that. Never that. Kadar loved life too much. As a child, he always laughed first and smiled the widest. Growing into manhood, Kadar retained innocence, even as he became a trained assassin. That contributed to him never attaining master assassin status. He did not seem to care, though he always worked hard, and was committed to his duties. Life was easy for him. Life _had been_ easy for him. But to seek the final end? Never.

Doubt crept into Malik’s confidence while he remembered Kadar telling of his horrific ordeal. Perhaps Altaïr’s observation might not be as outrageous as it initially seemed. And if so, Malik could have pushed Kadar too far, because he alone bore responsibility for his brother’s enraged, unbalanced state of mind that morning.

“Fuck,” he growled, at himself. “I should not have reacted the way I did. But when I opened my eyes and saw him also in your arms.” He ground his teeth, hating that he felt any jealousy. Kadar needed Altaïr, and was no threat to Malik. To react as he did only created a war between being a brother to Kadar and lover to Altaïr. He _had_ to put those conflicted feelings aside. Because Kadar came first.

Now Altaïr’s hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing hard. “We can do this Malik. But you must control your emotions. I’m not giving either of you up.”


	13. Returned (part 13 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 13 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 4,000 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  
  
 **Returned** – part thirteen

  
The sun had long since set, and now the bedchamber glowed deep gold from the lamp placed safely away from Kadar’s bed. There, Kadar sat against the wall, finishing his dinner. Altaïr put aside his own empty plate, then opened a book in his lap. But the words were of no interest to him. He glanced up to the drape separating the bedchamber from the workroom. Behind it, Malik worked late, no doubt hunched over his latest map. His diligence was not out of duty, but to distract himself from Altaïr and Kadar being alone in the bedchamber.

This had all been Malik’s idea.

When he gently pushed Altaïr back through the drape earlier, he said only, “He needs you Altaïr. Don’t deny him, even if all he wants is you holding him while he sleeps.”

Though Altaïr wanted this night with Kadar, he wondered how Malik would manage, alone. He dared not suggest Malik stay in the bedchamber. Malik had a very difficult time after Kadar joined them in bed that one morning. His jealous reaction to what had been chaste and innocent was disturbing. And his complete rejection of Kadar in their bed pushed Kadar over the edge.

Altaïr rubbed his hands over his face, sighing. Malik had to deal with his jealousy himself, and considering his suggestion for this evening, perhaps he had. For Altaïr, Kadar’s mental well being was the priority.

After that first fury-driven loss of control, Kadar resumed his typical behavior of lapsing into moments of silent staring, awake but lost. Those alternated with some lucidity. Only a few times did he display a recurrence of anger, and never as extreme as that first time. Since then, Altaïr and Malik shared bed cushions near Kadar, there always to ease his nightmares. Though they slept side by side, they restricted their physical intimacy to the workroom. Kadar seemed to accept them being friends, and never asked why Altaïr and Malik were asleep embracing that morning. However, since then he had not again initiated contact with Altaïr. Always it was Altaïr, or Malik, who reached out to him, whether during his moments of awareness, or when he was lost in a nightmare.

Tonight, he seemed aware. Enough to ask Altaïr why Malik had not joined them for dinner. He accepted the explanation that Malik was working late, and then ate, glancing up at Altaïr often.

Altaïr pretended the pages of his book were his sole focus. He had to allow Kadar complete control.

After a lengthy silence, Kadar finally spoke. “Is Malik working all night?”

Though pleased that Kadar had retained that bit of information from earlier, Altaïr wondered what motivated the question. “Possibly,” he answered, without looking up from the book. “Why do you ask?”

He received no reply. When he looked up, he found Kadar lying on his side, staring at the lamp, seemingly entranced by the flame.

“Kadar?”

This was not the breakthrough he had hoped for. “Don’t lose yourself. Stay here. With me.” He reached over and gently rested his hand on Kadar’s, hoping the physical contact would bring him back. “Can you feel my hand on yours?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

He withdrew his touch, exhaling, frustrated. Past experiences told him any attempt at forcing awareness on Kadar would fail.

Torn now, he wavered at the edge of the sleeping cushions. At times Kadar hated being touched. But Altaïr yearned to wrap him in his arms, and hold him, safe. A compromise seemed logical.

He slid cushions across the floor, lining them up against Kadar’s bed. Then he lay down, as if he were sleeping alone, not a mere handspan away from Kadar.

Kadar still stared at the lamp, eyes empty, dilated, most of the blue displaced by black. When Altaïr reached over to snuff out the flame, Kadar flinched. “No. Please?”

Altaïr froze, his hand just short of the lamp.

“They kept me in the dark,” Kadar said, his voice quivering. Then he looked up. Fear now widened his eyes. He began twisting his fingers around his wrist, rubbing the scar left from being shackled.

“Kadar...” Altaïr reached across and grasped his trembling hand.

Kadar clutched back, tightly. “Will I ever forget?”

A question impossible to answer the way they both wanted him to. There was no point in telling lies. “You will heal. You are healing. Do you remember what Malik and I both told you? That we are here for you?”

He nodded, sighing. “Yes. But it’s hard. Every minute is so hard Altaïr.” He continued staring at the flame, though fully aware now.

Altaïr decided to take a chance, to prompt Kadar into taking some control. “I am here to make it better for you. Is there anything you want? Anything?”

Silence.

But then Kadar glanced up from the lamp. “Can you hold me? Like you did in my dream?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Progress. Altaïr exhaled, relieved that Kadar had taken this enormous step. “What dream was that?” he asked, tentatively, not wanting to upset him now that he actually reached out.

“You came to me, and told me you wanted me. It’s all blurry now. But I remember feeling so safe with you. Even if it was a lie.”

“It was real. I am real. This...”

He pulled Kadar’s hand to his lips and kissed the back. “ _This_ is real Kadar.”

“How can you want me...” Kadar’s eyes darted away.

Then, Altaïr understood that nothing he could say would erase Kadar’s doubt. It was too entrenched by the months of abuse and pain and degradation. So he stopped trying to convince him of anything, and instead asked a simple question.

“Do you want me Kadar?”

Now Kadar looked at him, clearly taken aback by the question. He tugged his hand free. “I... I don’t know. Uh...” he stammered. “Yes. No. Yes?”

Altaïr smiled. And Kadar returned the smile, so faint it was hardly noticeable. But enough to brighten the dark blue of his eyes. And Altaïr felt something loosen in his chest, the tight worry easing, now replaced by warmth.

He smoothed his hand over Kadar’s hair, then rested his palm on Kadar’s cheek. “There is no hurry. I will wait for you. Days, weeks, months. Even years. I’m not going anywhere.”

Kadar leaned into his touch. “I do want you. But I am scared. What if I wake up and all this is nothing more than my mind being cruel to me?”

“It’s not. You have me here right now. And when you wake up I will still be here.” Now he opened his arms, welcoming Kadar into his embrace, and more.

Kadar sighed, a heavy sigh that sounded as if all the anxiety had washed clean from him. “Altaïr...” he breathed out, then slid across his bed into Altaïr’s arms.

Lying on their sides upon Altaïr’s bed cushions, Altaïr held them tightly together. Kadar felt thin. Too thin. The months of malnutrition and horrendous treatment had left the once strong assassin wasted away. He noticed this the first time they embraced, but only now had the weakness abated enough for him to consider doing something about it. Because of the lingering mental damage Kadar displayed, working as an assassin again was improbable. But at the very least restoring some physical strength would surely aid in his overall well being. But as Altaïr wondered what exercises to begin with, what Kadar could possibly handle given his condition, he cleared his mind. All that could wait.

For now he simply gave all that he could through their embrace. And Kadar responded, pressing his face against Altaïr’s chest.

Holding Kadar like this awakened the desire within Altaïr. His body, and his heart, reacted to their closeness. Kadar raised his head, and touched his lips to Altaïr’s neck. Soft, like the tiniest bird landing there. Altaïr’s breath caught inside his chest. The simple gesture, though sweet, revealed Kadar did want him. And against his already hard length, he felt evidence of Kadar’s growing arousal.

Kadar pulled himself up, drawing his mouth even with Altaïr’s. But as their erections rubbed together through their clothes, he turned his face, his body suddenly rigid. “I...” he began. Altaïr immediately backed his hips away, so they no longer touched there. Gently, he held him, not wanting to let go, but not wanting him to feel trapped.

“There’s no shame in feeling desire Kadar.”

“They made me feel shame,” he whispered. “They touched me, forced me... They made me climax for them. I hated it. Hated them for doing that to me.”

Altaïr called upon every last bit of control to not react to this heartbreaking admission. As if the violent sexual trauma Kadar endured was not bad enough, they also tormented him by taking pleasure and twisting it into something abhorrent and humiliating?

“Kadar...” he said, now pushing back and looking into Kadar’s eyes. “You felt that I want you, just as you want me. But I am worried for you. That this is going to hurt you.”

Kadar blinked, then placed his lips upon Altaïr’s, briefly. He pulled away, the rigidity in his body easing. “I am yours Altaïr.” He tentatively pressed their bodies together. His arousal hard against Altaïr’s thigh implied his words were genuine.

And in response, every part of Altaïr’s body screamed yes. But his head and heart agreed no. Not yet. Kadar was still too fragile.

With Kadar safe against him, he said, “And I am yours. But later. Let us stay like this for now. I will hold you all night Kadar.”

He rubbed his hand in light circles over Kadar’s back, high up, clear of where the brand lay beneath his tunic. The last of Kadar’s tension released. Eventually, he breathed soft and slow, and his erection faded as he fell asleep.

Altaïr denied his own need. This trust placed in him was infinitely more satisfying than indulging his desire. Kadar at peace granted him peace as well. He tilted his head to the side and blew out the flame. Now wrapped in darkness, protecting Kadar, he too fell into a deep sleep.

#

Kadar awoke in the dark. But he felt no fear. Not this night. Not while he lay against Altaïr, held safe in the assassin’s arms.

And he realized the darkness was not complete. The moon cast pale light into the bedchamber, washing the room in a faint pearly glow. The slow rise and fall of Altaïr’s chest beneath his face told him he alone was awake. Alone, and aware. He remembered everything from earlier that evening. Eating. Altaïr explaining Malik was working late. Kadar quickly glanced around the bedchamber and found it empty. Malik was still at work, or asleep elsewhere. His thoughts again returned to earlier.

Altaïr had wanted him. He felt it, just as he had felt his own arousal begin to awaken. That had frightened him, deeply. But Altaïr knew exactly what to say, and in his words and actions gave Kadar comfort. Altaïr made him feel safe. And wanted, despite everything he had suffered.

That briefest moment their bodies met through their clothes, both aroused, needing each other...

There, in the dark, lying against Altaïr, his heart skipped, then sped up. Dread warred with an abrupt rush of desire. Heat pooled in his groin, flowing from there out into his body, for that moment denying any fear.

Quickly, he grew to full arousal.

Altaïr wanted him. The weeks of blurred thoughts, dreams blending with reality, punctuated by stretches of darkness all receded. Now, here in the bedchamber, Kadar knew this was real.

Why? How? Self doubt. Self hate. All those worries seemed to fade before the burst of life rising inside him, rushing through his body, and his heart.

Against Altaïr’s leg he pushed, very lightly, not wanting to disturb Altaïr, but needing so desperately to ease this ache building inside him. A faint moan escaped his lips. He could not stop it. And suddenly, amber eyes opened.

Kadar panicked. “I... Uh...” he began, unsure how to explain his behavior. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’ve been awake Kadar. Can you see that I share your desire?” He loosened his arms, then nodded down. Kadar propped himself up, and peered between them. Even in the faint moonlight the proof of Altaïr’s desire rose beneath his tunic. Staring at the outline of his erection, Kadar felt his mouth water. In a distant memory, he knew exactly what Altaïr tasted like. But those one sided memories had never been like this.

Here, in Altaïr’s arms, his desire now mattered. Though fear and shame both lingered, never fully retreating, he wanted this more than he ever wanted anything in his life.

He closed the gap between them, unable to avoid their erections meeting through the thin layers of their tunics. Beneath him, Altaïr inhaled sharply, and tightened his arms. His eyes now overflowed with warmth.

How this could be true Kadar refused to consider. Not now. He rolled his hips, rubbing against Altaïr, while bending his head down.

This kiss. How long had he dreamt of this? Years it seemed... He pressed his lips against Altaïr’s, knowing he was forever sealing his fate, and not caring.

Gentle, Altaïr returned his kiss. At first their tongues explored softly, a cautious dance that only further inflamed Kadar’s arousal.

Breathless, he tore his mouth away, gasping. “I... I need you Altaïr.” Controlled by this raging fire, oblivious to the past, he begged, “Please... Touch me.”

Altaïr kissed him again, then trailed his fingers down Kadar’s neck, over his chest, to the hem of his tunic. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, then pushed forward into Altaïr’s hand.

Altaïr closed his hand around Kadar, gently. “Is this what you want?” he whispered against Kadar’s ear.

Kadar answered with slight push of his hips, sliding his erection against Altaïr’s palm. Nervous, with memories fraying at his consciousness, he fought to focus on Altaïr’s careful touch.

Then Altaïr slid his other arm around Kadar’s waist, guiding his motions, brushing his fingertips over Kadar’s lower back, tracing down. Down.

Kadar froze, terrified. “No,” he gasped, pulling away, now threatened by pieces of memory rapidly closing around him. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you like that.” The words, Altaïr’s voice, tangled with the surging memories. And Kadar realized although he wanted Altaïr, the trauma had been too great, and resulting scars too deep for him to give himself that way. Not only was he not healed physically, but he feared reliving what was done to him. Though worried he would lose this chance with Altaïr, the terror of facing the past proved too powerful. Ashamed, tense in Altaïr’s loose embrace, he shook his head. “I can’t. Not there. Not after what they did.”

Altaïr ran his hand over Kadar’s hair, a gentle, soothing motion, then began rocking him back and forth. “I know. I know Kadar. It’s all right. I promise to never touch you there.”

Relieved he had not driven Altaïr away, Kadar wrapped his arms around Altaïr’s waist, and held on tightly. He felt his arousal begin to return, and lifted his face for another kiss. But Altaïr placed a hand between their mouths. “I care about you Kadar, deeply. And I can see this is too much for you.”

This _was_ too much. Kadar knew it, understood that they were stressing the very limits of his tenuous stability. He did not care. “Don’t stop Altaïr. Please. I need this. I need you.”

Amber eyes gazed at him, as if searching for whether he spoke the truth. He answered with a kiss, tugging his and Altaïr’s tunics up so that their bodies now met, skin sliding against skin. He straddled Altaïr, still kissing him, grasping their erections together, stroking them both, wanting more, needing more.

Altaïr placed his hand over Kadar’s, lightly, slowing him down. “What would you like? Anything... I will do anything for you Kadar.”

What he wanted he could never ask for. Altaïr was a proud man, powerful and strong. Not a man to allow another inside him. But Kadar hungered to feel himself enveloped by Altaïr, by more than his hand.

“Am I what you desire most?” Altaïr asked, his amber eyes watching Kadar as if seeing into his heart.

Kadar gulped. “I...” he began, knowing his honest answer would be met with rejection.

Now Altaïr smiled, softly. “Take me Kadar. There’s no shame for either of us.”

Utterly shocked, Kadar flinched. And Altaïr stroked his hair, trailing his fingers down under his chin. “Yes, you do want me,” he said.

Unable to lie, feeling heat flooding his cheeks, Kadar whispered, “Yes.”

“Then I am yours. I want you. I trust you.”

He pressed a small bottle into Kadar’s palm. Though it had been a long time, Kadar knew exactly what to do. He kept his eyes averted while opening the bottle and dribbling some of the oil over his fingers. He breathed deep, wondering if this was a dream.

Altaïr took the bottle from him and set it aside. Then he wound their fingers together, spreading the oil over both their hands. “Real... I am real.”

Kadar shivered. How did Altaïr know his every thought? Know just what to say? Speech in return seemed impossible for him right now. He could not trust his voice.

“No words are necessary Kadar. Relax, and feel.” Altaïr then pulled their mouths together.

While they lost themselves in another kiss, Altaïr lifted his hips, grasped one leg behind the knee and drew it back, opening himself up for Kadar.

Kadar reached down between them and pressed his well oiled finger carefully into Altaïr. He held his breath, waiting, praying this was not causing any pain. But Altaïr ran his tongue over his lips, moaning softly. “Your touch feels so good... So good...”

As he rubbed the oil on himself, he fought the fear surging inside him. Fear of his own desire, of the shame he knew this night could not heal. Fear of...

Altaïr’s hand brushed his cheek, jarring him from that downward spiral threatening to steal him away. “Please stop if you have doubts.”

Any reply caught in his throat. A wave of sadness rippled through him, brief, but enough to coax tears into his eyes.

“We can wait Kadar.”

 _No!_

He shook his head, spilling the tears down his face.

“Good tears?” Altaïr asked, brushing a fingertip over his cheek, tenderly.

He nodded.

“You are in complete control. I am yours.”

Now Kadar held himself still, waiting for some last acceptance of this impossibility. Altaïr reached up, cupping his face. “I’m sure Kadar. For you...”

And then Kadar gave in, allowing his body to guide him. Carefully, he eased his way into Altaïr, looking down at this beautiful man beneath him, wanting to see every expression on Altaïr’s face. But the pleasure gripped tight around him proved too great. He closed his eyes, pausing, suspended in disbelief.

Altaïr’s voice drew him back. “This is real... Even more than real.”

Now he opened his eyes, and found Altaïr gazing up at him. He pushed his hips forward, sliding in farther.

Moaning softly, Altaïr reached between them and closed his hand around his own erection. “More Kadar. Please...”

And Kadar gave him what he asked for, what they both wanted. For Kadar, this was a dream made real. Beneath his hands, one braced on Altaïr’s chest, the other gripping his waist, he felt Altaïr’s skin damp and warm, and alive. As he made love to him, every muscle in his body stretched and moved and returned to life. His scars he felt too, pulling and aching across his back and over his legs. But nothing could steal away glorious this moment from him. Through the haze of wonder, he looked down, and watched Altaïr’s face, cheeks flushed and lips reddened from their kisses. And those amber eyes watched him in return. Not cold and detached. Not even warm and caring. Now Altaïr’s gaze burned with passion and need so intense, Kadar blinked, unable to believe this was all for him.

Those full lips parted. “I need you Kadar... Faster... Please...”

Hearing Altaïr’s words, and his plea, nearly drove Kadar over the edge. He stifled a moan, and began to speed up his thrusts. In time with his motion, Altaïr stroked himself, gasping as Kadar slid out, then pushed in. Altaïr’s breaths grew sharper, more erratic, and he clutched his free hand around Kadar’s neck, pulling their mouths together. While locked in a kiss as deep as Kadar’s thrusts, they both moaned.

Abruptly, Altaïr’s fluid motions stopped. He stiffened, then cried out against Kadar’s mouth. Kadar felt Altaïr’s seed hot on his chest, and looked down as the last of it spilled. He groaned, bending his head forward, giving Altaïr’s slack lips a kiss before losing himself in one final thrust. The gathered pleasure now exploded inside him, burning like white hot light through his closed eyes. As he came, he stayed deep in Altaïr, lost between his body’s release and his heart’s desire, now one.

Cradled in Altaïr’s arms, Kadar lay limp and helpless as a newborn. He wondered if he could ever say the words expressing the true depth of his feelings. Such words were never spoken by men like Altaïr. But in his heart, he knew how he felt. And his heart believed Altaïr felt the same in return.

None of this could ever fully banish the fear and the memories. The scars would never let him forget.

But in Altaïr’s comforting touch, his gentleness, his devotion, Kadar found all that he thought forever lost to him. And he thought maybe now he could begin to live again.

#

Through his tears, Malik watched Kadar fall asleep in the safety of Altaïr’s arms. A place he knew so well from recent days. A place he now yearned for. His thoughts ran wild, trampling over his mind in a confused tangle of jealousy and love and guilt and desire and shame.

Aroused beyond the strictures of normalcy, desiring the forbidden, he ached to share in what he had seen.

Never did Malik weep. Never. But witnessing this profound moment, Kadar finding peace after so much pain and suffering, he found it impossible to hold back the tears.

He had been right. Kadar and Altaïr simply needed time alone. Without him.

Together, they were beautiful in every way. The sensitivity Altaïr showed Kadar. Then, the gentle healing he offered by giving himself so completely. Kadar facing down his fear and his past with courage and strength, and finally accepting the precious gift from Altaïr. All of these stole Malik’s breath.

So too the wondrous expression lighting Kadar’s face while he took... No, not took. _Made love_ to Altaïr. Even from afar Malik saw life begin returning to his brother. Kadar still had a long and challenging path to healing, and might never be as he had been. But through this connection with Altaïr, one that transcended physical desire, Kadar had at least found some peace.

Standing here, partially shrouded by the drape separating his workroom from the bedchamber, Malik experienced joy and loss so poignant, his chest felt like it had taken a sword.

Yet he knew all this pain would vanish if he could only reach out. How desperately he wanted to be a part of what they shared.

Instead, he took a single step back into the workroom, and let the drape fall.

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	14. Returned (part 14 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 14 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst.  
 **Word count:** 1,200 for this part, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  
  
 **Returned** – part fourteen

  
As the light of dawn poured into the bedchamber, Altaïr carefully extracted himself from beneath Kadar. His efforts at slipping out unnoticed failed. Kadar opened his eyes, the blue startling in the morning light. But his head remained on the cushion, and he appeared half asleep. No wonder, given their night together.

Altaïr tucked the blanket over him. “Sleep Kadar. I’m just going for a moment. I’ll return soon.”

His eyes closed, and he smiled. Altaïr bent down and kissed his cheek, lingering there, remembering the quiet intensity of sharing themselves with each other. He ached to crawl back under the blanket, and...

Discipline cut off that thought before it tempted him further. Malik waited, and Altaïr had to face him, and his reaction to what had happened. Knowing ahead of time, even being the one who suggested it, would not ease the difficulties Malik surely dealt with all night.

Though focused on Kadar, and eventually lost in the pleasure they shared, Altaïr knew Malik had pulled the drape aside and watched. Even had he not, his ears would have heard enough to know Kadar and Altaïr had become intimate. A simple drape of fabric across the doorway did not conceal sound. And Malik had not watched for only a moment. He remained there, silent, the entire time Altaïr and Kadar were together. Knowing this had only enhanced Altaïr’s arousal. He wondered if Malik too enjoyed what he watched. Or was he now simmering in dark thoughts created by jealousy? Or both?

Altaïr stood, and pulled on his trousers, dreading what awaited him, yet hopeful that his connection with Malik would prove strong enough to ease any of Malik’s unrest. Ultimately, Kadar had benefitted from the night, and for that Malik could only be grateful.

He wished that Malik had been there too. He missed him, missed his strength and control. And he wondered how Malik would have looked holding Kadar. Placing gentle kisses on his lips. Joining them on the cushions...

 _Stop!_

Those thoughts were best left to the night, when he had them the first time. He tugged his tunic down over his trousers, and hoped his arousal would quickly fade as he walked across the bedchamber and reached for the drape.

Altaïr found Malik behind his desk, sitting in the corner, holding a cushion against his chest. His head drooped forward as if he slept. But his dark eyes were wide open.

Then he noticed Altaïr. He flung the cushion aside and stood. Fussing with a pile of paper on his desk, he said, “Go back to him Altaïr. He needs you more than I do.”

Exactly what Altaïr feared, despite Malik’s insistence that he could handle Altaïr becoming intimate with Kadar. He reached across the desk and grabbed his hand. “I don’t believe you mean that. And what about me? What I want?”

Malik snatched his hand away. “Thinking of yourself? Well, maybe you’ve not changed at all.”

This return to sarcasm was no surprise either. The man wore his harsh words and sharp tongue like armor. Altaïr rested both hands on the desk. “I was thinking of you, and us. All three of us.”

Malik took a feather from among the quills on his desk, and pointed it at Altaïr. “I watched. I saw how he reacted to you, and you to him.”

“Is this not what you thought would happen?”

“What I _thought_? I thought I would be jealous. And I was, at first.”

Now Malik turned away. His fist clenched around the delicate feather. “I wanted to be with you,” he said quietly, then paused. Abruptly, he spun around. “With _both of you_. How could I want that?” He pounded his hand, still clutching the feather, against his chest. “What evil is this inside me that I desire my own brother?!”

Altaïr suppressed his admission that he too wanted all three of them together. He could not possibly empathize with the internal battle Malik now fought. But to him, the reasons why this forbidden attraction had developed were clear. “You love him. You want to protect him. Help him. Give him comfort.”

“You make it sound normal, and right! He is MY BROTHER!” Malik shot back, his voice shaking.

“Are we not all brothers?” Altaïr replied, calmly.

Malik glared at him. “He is _my blood_.”

What did that matter? They were not brother and sister, where such unions could produce damaged children. He held out both hands, palms up. “And?”

That pushed Malik over the edge. He threw the feather down, then slammed his fist on the desk. “Stop twisting my thoughts Altaïr!”

Deeply conflicted, Malik was twisting his thoughts himself. Altaïr was simply trying to help him see the obvious. Perhaps approaching the tangled mess of desire and caring and devotion from Kadar’s perspective might make it all clearer.

“If it matters, I don’t believe Kadar would reject you Malik. What he felt last night was beyond physical intimacy. For him, being with me was about trust and acceptance. I accepted him, despite all that he suffered. And he trusted me, that I wanted him and he was safe with me. He felt pleasure, yes. But it was much more than that.”

At first, Malik looked at him, as if considering what this could mean for them. Then he shook his head, and flipped his hand. “Of course it was more than that. Kadar is deeply in love with you.”

 _In love_ , whatever that meant. Altaïr threw that awkward observation back at Malik. “He loves you as well.”

“Yes. Because I am his _brother_. You are his lover.”

“As I am yours. But maybe you don’t want me now?” he asked, knowing Malik more than wanted him, but digging for a reaction.

Malik laughed, a sound of frustration, not happiness. “Don’t want you?! Have you heard what I’ve been saying?”

Altaïr heard every word, and more. Malik was the one having a hard time listening to himself. “Beyond the words you’ve spoken I have also heard your heart Malik.”

Now they stared at each other. More emotion than Altaïr could bear passed between them. But he refused to break their eye contact. He faced death every day. This too he could brave.

Malik glanced away first. “What of your heart?” he asked, while picking the feather back up and trailing it over his chest.

Reaching out, Altaïr plucked the feather from his hand. “My heart has not changed. I want you both. I HAVE you both.”

“Arrogant, insufferable...” Malik muttered, leaning over, close enough to kiss Altaïr. “You infuriate me.” He clamped his fingers around Altaïr’s face, and crushed their lips together. Then he shoved him away. “Don’t leave Kadar to wake up alone. I’m going to the hammam.”

“Clear your mind and listen to your heart Malik. Hear what it is telling you.”

In those dark eyes lingering on him as he backed toward the bedchamber, Altaïr saw what neither of them could ever say. The profound emotion, even more powerful than physical desire, mirrored his own heart. Lifting the drape aside, he touched the feather to his chest.

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	15. Returned (part 15 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 15 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst. Incest. Polyamory.  
 **Word count:** 1,900, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


  
  
 **Returned** – part fifteen

  
Malik leaned against the fountain, soaking in the sun’s warmth while watching Altaïr lead Kadar through a slow, abbreviated series of strengthening exercises. A week had passed since his brother and his lover became intimate. Since that night Kadar retained awareness for longer periods of time, but still lapsed into moments of complete detachment, awake but not aware. Then, not even Altaïr’s gentle prompting could bring him back. He also had two violent nightmares which left Malik and Altaïr unable to soothe him to sleep without resorting to hashish oil.

Only once more had Altaïr shared Kadar’s bed. The other evenings Kadar was either drugged with hashish oil, by his own request so he could sleep, or lost to reality. Altaïr seemed to instinctively know what Kadar needed. Malik was always there, at their side, except for that second time they were intimate. Then, he remained in the workroom, awake and nearly driven mad by the need to be with them both. But he denied himself even a glance through the drape.

The next night when he found himself face down, bent over his desk, those thoughts were impossible to vanquish from his mind. While taking him, Altaïr had leaned close and whispered, “I want you with us Malik... I want to see you kiss him. Touch him. Taste him. There’s no shame in what we all can share... Kadar needs us both...” There, with Altaïr driving deep into him while also dropping kisses on his back and stroking his cock, he imagined his mouth on Kadar, gently teasing, watching his brother’s lovely blue eyes gazing back at him. The three of them together, giving pleasure to each other in complete trust.

Now, in the day’s brilliant sunshine, he thanked his black robe for concealing what that blend of arousing memory and disturbing fantasy so readily created.

Kadar did need them both. That most basic fact he agreed with. Seeing Kadar struggle to perform movements that had once been child’s play to the trained assassin, Malik finally accepted that his brother would never completely heal.

He wiped a bead of sweat trickling down his face. Fully dressed, he began to feel effects of the heat. Odd, he never minded when wearing white. He wondered if that was why Altaïr, armed, dressed in his long tunic, hood up and pulled low over his face, looked comfortable in the sun. Kadar too, although he wore only a short white tunic over loose trousers.

Maybe more than the sun caused Malik to sweat. Watching them together, touching, even in this non-intimate way, gave him thoughts he had no right having.

Altaïr placed one hand flat on Kadar’s chest. “Breathe Kadar. Deeper. Right... Now exhale, slow and controlled.”

Kadar breathed out, slowly, his entire body quivering with the effort spent. Altaïr lifted his hand away, then ran it lovingly over Kadar’s black hair. “Excellent. Now rest.” He took Kadar’s arm, steadying him while he lowered himself onto the waiting cushion.

Malik scooped a cup into the fountain and handed it down to his brother. “Drink.”

While Kadar gulped down the entire cup, Altaïr also drank, then dipped his hand into to the water and rubbed it over his flushed face. Evidently, the heat had gotten to him as well.

Kadar handed the cup back to Malik. Then he cleared his throat. “Are either of you ever going to tell me what happened?”

Malik immediately searched for Altaïr’s reaction, and found him already staring back. They said nothing, looking at each other as if neither wanted to speak first. What could they tell him? Everything? Nothing?

Kneeling beside Kadar, Malik said, “Maybe it is best left in the past.”

“Why?” Kadar asked, glancing between them as if he knew they hid some truth from him.

Malik began to again attempt to end the conversation right here, for Kadar’s benefit. But Altaïr interrupted. “Why? Because it is very difficult for us to speak of. That day I made some terrible mistakes in judgment. My short-sightedness cost Malik his arm. And we thought I also caused your death.”

Though Malik did not feel prepared for this, he refused to allow Altaïr to bear the responsibility alone. “Altaïr...” he began.

But this time Kadar cut him short. “I don’t blame you for me being captured. I was slow, and allowed myself to be cornered.”

“You remember?” Malik asked.

He nodded, one hand rubbing the scar around the other wrist. “That part. I remembered a few days ago after waking from a nightmare.” His eyes seemed to glaze over now, emptying.

Dropping to one knee, Altaïr placed a hand on his shoulder. “Kadar?”

The empty stare remained, but Kadar exhaled, long and slow as if he had been holding his breath. “We had a mission. It was our duty to complete our task. I failed in my part. Would you still have your arm if not for my failure?”

Now Altaïr and Malik exchanged worried glances. Both bore the heavy weight of guilt on their shoulders for weeks. And neither would allow Kadar to be dragged into that same destructive cycle.

“I lost my arm because I made a bad decision. But it’s done. We cannot take back that day. Nor anything after.”

Altaïr added, “You brother is right. Do not dwell on such thoughts.”

Kadar lifted his face, resting his thoughtful gaze on Altaïr first, then Malik. “Thank you both.”

“You’re thanking us?” Malik said, nearly laughing. After all that he suffered, what could he possibly thank them for?

Kadar opened his fingers from around his wrist, then reached one hand out to each of them. “I would be dead if not for you. Both of you.” Around Malik’s hand, he squeezed tight. Malik saw he did the same to Altaïr’s hand. Then he continued, “I know sometimes my mind doesn’t work. Right now I am here, so let me have this time to speak.”

Sitting there on the cushion, his back against the fountain, with Malik and Altaïr kneeling before him, he looked as if he might cry while he gathered his thoughts.

But Malik and Altaïr stayed silent, waiting for him to speak. Eventually he did, voice trembling, “I know I will never be the same again. But you each have duties you must not put aside for me. Please promise I will not be a burden to you.”

That plea drove right through Malik’s heart. “A burden? Never Kadar. You are my brother. All this. My arm. The guilt Altaïr and I have shared. The suffering you’ve bravely endured... Through it all I’ve learned what means the most to me.”

With his one arm he hugged Kadar, tightly. “I will protect you always. Never will you suffer again.” Then he backed away slightly, welcoming Altaïr.

Solemn, Altaïr slid into the space, closing the three of them together. “I feel the same Kadar. We both will be here for you. Always.” He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss upon Kadar’s lips. “We are all three brothers now. Together.”

Before Malik could pull away, Altaïr touched his lips against Malik’s, risking all. Then he again kissed Kadar, lingering there for a moment before lifting his mouth away, a faint smile upon his face. Kadar glanced from Malik to Altaïr. He sighed, a soft gentle sound like a breeze through spring leaves. “I love you both.”

Kadar stunned Malik with his easy acceptance of what should have created trouble. Perhaps he was losing touch, and did not fully comprehend what he had seen. “Are you feeling well?” he asked, looking carefully into his eyes.

Kadar blinked, then sagged against him. “Well enough considering I’ve moved more today than in months. But my head hurts.”

“Then it is time for you to rest. No point in pushing too hard. Right Altaïr?”

Altaïr nodded, releasing Kadar completely into Malik’s embrace. “We’ll go slowly, just a little each day.” He rose, and straightened his hood, looking every bit the deadly assassin. “Now, if you both don’t mind I am going to visit the hammam.”

Watching him, yearning clear upon his face, Kadar said, “Maybe we can go together when I am strong enough? I could use a very long soak.”

“Of course. We will _all_ go. Right Malik?” he replied, with the tiniest trace of a smirk.

Malik just rolled his eyes. He helped Kadar to his feet, then began guiding him back inside. The hammam was not exactly a place for indulging one’s desires. But their bedchamber?

He shook his head, denying such fantasies. Against him, Kadar’s steps faltered. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m tired. That was hard, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.” Even his voice wavered now.

Worried, Malik slowed their pace. “Listen to me. You MUST be honest with Altaïr. He’s trying to help you. He’s seen you at your weakest, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you either,” he said, quietly, as if he already had.

This was the younger brother he knew so well, always trying hard to live up to some lofty expectations only he placed upon himself. “You will never disappoint me.”

As Kadar sagged onto his bed cushions, he tugged at Malik’s robe. “Do you love him too?”

The child-like gesture and question threw Malik off. “I...”

But Kadar saved him from replying to a question with no answer. “I see how you look at him, and he looks at you the same way.”

So Kadar did notice. Neither Malik nor Altaïr guessed he had any idea what was going on between them. Malik offered the truth, without unnecessary details. “We’ve become very close while taking care of you.”

“I like that.”

“Do you?”

“He is so gentle with me. But I know he needs more than I can ever give him.”

What could Malik say to this? How many times in one day would his brother shock him? He shook his head, feeling utterly defeated. “I don’t give you enough credit, do I?”

“Did you ever?” he said, smiling softly. “You are my older brother. I would not expect anything else from you.” He stretched out on his bed, and reached for Malik’s hand. “Stay with me while I fall asleep?” He pressed the back of Malik’s hand to his mouth, lips resting there while he gazed up.

“Kadar...” Malik whispered, wanting, _needing_ , to hold him, but forbidding himself.

He bent his head down, and very lightly kissed Kadar’s lips, mouth closed. In his mind he poured all of his suppressed, twisted desire into this one innocent touch. And Kadar returned his kiss, gently, lips soft and yielding. But his hand, still entwined in Malik’s, tightened, fingers digging.

 _He wants this too?_

Before Malik lost all control, he lifted his mouth away, slowly, carefully, not wanting Kadar to feel rejected. “I love you Kadar,” he whispered, then brushed a soft kiss on his cheek.

As he straightened, Kadar smiled up at him. Then he closed his lovely blue eyes, and his fingers around Malik’s hand slackened.

Malik sat there, holding Kadar’s hand long after he fell asleep. “I don’t have half the strength you do brother.”

[   
](http://statcounter.com/godaddy_website_tonight/)   



	16. Returned (part 16 of 16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik thought he had lost everything... Until Altaïr rescued Kadar from Templar imprisonment.

**Title:** Returned (part 16 of 16)  
 **Author:** [](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/profile)[**dmnutv_archer**](http://dmnutv-archer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (الطائر ابن لا أحد)  
Malik Al-Sayf (مالك السيف)  
Kadar Al-Sayf (قدر السيف)  
 **Spoilers:** AC1  
 **Rating:** Mature/NC-17  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Sex. Violence. Drug use. Character imprisonment, torture, rape. Angst. Incest. Polyamory.  
 **Word count:** 4,000, total 40,400  
 **Disclaimer:** Assassin’s Creed and its characters are owned by Ubisoft.  
 **Note:** Special thanks to [](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/profile)[**terraplan**](http://terraplan.livejournal.com/) for advice and support.  


 **A/N:** I loved writing Returned, and hope you all have enjoyed reading. There will be a short sequel posted soon. Also, thanks to everyone who left their thoughts. This is not exactly a ‘traditional’ story, and I appreciate all the support.  <3

  
  
 **Returned** – part sixteen

Relaxed after his time at the hammam, Altaïr sat on the roof of the bureau and watched the sun fall through a fiery sky and dip beyond the western horizon. Alone, he gathered himself, knowing who awaited him below. And what lay ahead in the future.

Kadar had been right about duty. For Altaïr, there could be no compromise regarding his responsibilities. Especially not now that he sensed events were spiraling into a whole new and dangerous direction, perhaps arising from within the Brotherhood itself. Nothing, indeed, was true. At least not outside the walls and courtyard of this building in Jerusalem. Soon he would be forced to leave, to continue his work. But the vow he made to Kadar, and through it to Malik, he would uphold until his death. He would honor the promises made that afternoon in the courtyard. Never would Kadar be alone. A burden? No. Not to Altaïr, knowing his heart’s commitment to both men.

The time away from them was necessary, and possibly vital to their entire way of life. But he would not leave, even for a day, before Malik truly listened to his heart and took that final leap he so obviously yearned to make.

Altaïr breathed deep, savoring the warm evening air, wrapping himself in calm thoughts. Their lives would never be simple, but together they could find some peace.

“The city is beautiful from up here.” Malik’s voice, deep, yet soft, stirred him from his thoughts. Before he could ask about Kadar, Malik slid down beside him. “He’s bathing now after sleeping all afternoon. We need to watch how much he pushes himself, because he admitted today was too much, but did not want to disappoint either of us.”

“You and I both know he needs to regain his strength.”

“Just be careful.”

Shoulders touching, they sat in silence. He had to tell Malik his plans. He knew there never would be a best time. But now, without Kadar there, seemed the most appropriate.

“When are you leaving us?” Malik asked, dark eyes searching him.

Saved from having to divulge the difficult truth, Altaïr now sought to offer reassurance. He reached over and took Malik’s hand. “Not yet. Soon. But it won’t be forever.”

“I’ll survive. But Kadar?”

“He will get through it. He has you.”

“When should we tell him?”

Tension now crept up Altaïr’s back, tightening the muscles at the base of his neck. What could he say? Dealing with Malik regarding the complex relationship developing between all three of them was nearly impossible. Only when he and Malik were lost in a moment of intense passion had he made actual references to them all becoming physically intimate. It had an obvious, arousing effect on Malik. To speak of it when grounded in reality proved far more difficult.

But time no longer allowed for anything but the blunt truth. Altaïr drew a deep breath, then said exactly what he thought. “First, let him have this small bit of peace and happiness. Enough to get him through while I am gone. Let him have us.”

“Us?” Malik whispered, now looking away. But his hand in Altaïr’s squeezed gently. Abruptly, he pushed himself up and straightened his robe. “I best go check on him. Are you brooding up here all night?”

Altaïr rolled his eyes. “Brooding. Is that what I’m doing?”

Reaching down, Malik rested his hand upon Altaïr’s shoulder. He closed his fingers, gripping tightly. “I will miss you.”

The quiet admission touched Altaïr. Malik conveyed much through his eyes and the language of his body, but words like these were not easy. Not for either of them. Altaïr unfolded himself and stood. Facing Malik, he placed his hand over his heart. “And I you. But I’ll never be truly gone. My vow to Kadar is to you as well.” He took his hand from his chest, then pressed it against Malik’s heart.

Malik glanced down, his serious expression not wavering. “I will hold you to it.” He backed away, toward the opening in the roof.

“I’ll follow shortly,” Altaïr said, feeling a poignant blend of sadness and arousal and contentment. “Just need a bit more time here.”

Malik started to speak, but instead exhaled. He nodded, then dropped into the bureau with the same effortless agility he had before losing his arm. Through the deepening shadows he looked back up at Altaïr, his black eyes merging into the surroundings. But in them, even from where he now stood on the roof, Altaïr saw desire ignite, then flame. With a last glance up at the stars now brightening overhead, he too leapt down into the darkness.

#

Malik strode into the bedchamber, knowing Altaïr followed. Now that he knew for certain Altaïr would soon leave, the seemingly endless stretch of time they had together disappeared. And that forced him to reconcile his heart, his desires, and his upended emotions.

The bedchamber glowed with the flames of multiple lamps. Dressed in a tunic and loose trousers, Kadar rested on a pile of cushions, his hair still damp. “How was bathing?” Malik asked, while Altaïr silently removed his weapons.

“I’m clean. But sore.”

That admission worried Malik. “Where?” he asked, sharply.

“All over. Nothing bad, just aches from earlier.”

“You did well today,” Altaïr said, crouching down. He touched kiss to Kadar’s lips, then rose and settled himself against the wall. He selected a book from the pile stacked beside his cushions, opened it and began reading. Kadar exhaled, as if disappointed.

Annoyed at the quick dismissal of Kadar’s discomfort, Malik glared at the assassin. Altaïr ignored him, reaching into the nearby basket for a fig.

Malik patted Kadar’s arm. “Perhaps I can help with your sore muscles.”

“Like you did when I was first in training?” Kadar asked, smiling up at him.

“Yes. Just like then.”

So long ago. Yet Malik remembered those days vividly. Becoming an assassin required forcing the body beyond all rational limits. And when exhausted, there was no rest, only more exertion, more practice, more sweat. Many never made it through those brutal weeks of intense training. Some quit. Others died. Kadar persevered. But when he was finally permitted to rest, Malik rubbed oil into his muscles, helping to ease the pain so that he could at least sleep during the brief time allowed. Then, while running his hands over his brother’s body, he never once felt even the faintest stirring of desire.

Now?

Malik swallowed, already feeling his mouth dry. But for Kadar, he would do anything. And just then, helping ease the physical discomfort took priority over Malik’s own twisted conflict. Still, touching Kadar, even to help, could cause other troubles. He recalled Kadar shrinking away during the previous weeks when he had applied healing oil to the brand and other scars.

“Can you bear me to touch your back?”

Kadar sighed, absently brushing his fingertips around his wrist. “I won’t know until you do,” he said, quietly, as if still uncertain. But he pulled the tunic up over his head and tossed it aside. Sitting, now dressed only in loose trousers, he turned his back to Malik.

Insane. Nothing else better described Malik after what he had just offered. Worse, Altaïr sat there, pretending to read while eating figs, those amber eyes glancing over as if daring him.

Cornered, though not by his brother or Altaïr. This was his doing. And maybe, just like Kadar bravely removing his tunic despite his fear, Malik too must grasp the courage within him and allow this night to happen.

He glanced aside. Altaïr had shifted attention from the book, and now held out an open bottle. Grateful for this unspoken and unexpected acknowledgement of his nerves, Malik accepted the hashish oil, and took a very small sip. Just enough to dull the anxiety, and prevent the panic threatening his resolve. He handed the bottle back. Altaïr pushed the stopper in and set it aside, then passed a second bottle to Malik. With a tip of his head toward Kadar, he went back to reading the book still open in his lap.

Malik sat there, holding the bottle, torn between the urge to punch him, and gratitude for the detached approach that gave Malik control. Altaïr would not push, beyond making it clear what he wanted. The night was now Malik’s to determine.

Just as he had during all the times he treated the vile brand and other scars, he passed the bottle of herb-infused oil to Kadar. Kadar opened it, then poured a small amount into Malik’s hand.

“Ready?” he asked.

Kadar nodded.

“Please tell me to stop if this hurts.”

Kadar nodded again, then took a deep breath.

Kneeling close, Malik pressed his palm gently onto Kadar’s shoulder. He rubbed his fingers through the oil, spreading it from one shoulder, across the base of Kadar’s neck, to the other. He breathed deep, inhaling the fresh scent of the healing herbs rising from his brother’s skin.

Kadar dropped his head forward. “Sore there...” he said, while pushing back against Malik’s touch. Malik rolled the heel of his hand against Kadar’s shoulders, first one, then across to the other, firm enough that Kadar gasped. But the years of doing this in the past told him not to stop. He continued, massaging hard now, savoring the feel of his brother responding to his touch. Though not sexual, every roll and knead of his hand, press of his fingers, Kadar’s soft moans in response, drove through him, settling between his legs.

He paused at the edge of the cross. Kadar sensed his hesitation, and glanced over his shoulder. “It’s all right. Don’t stop...” His voice trailed off into a whisper.

Lightly, with only his fingertips still touching, he brushed the oil over the brand.

Kadar tensed, inhaling sharply. Then exhaled. “Keep going...”

In awe of this quiet display of courage, Malik continued. Using the lightest pressure, he massaged Kadar’s back, never pausing in one spot, giving all that he could to help his brother heal the soreness from that day, and the months of traumatizing memories. The gentle motion, gliding over the brand and ridged scars as if they did not exist, relaxed Kadar and him both. His inhibitions retreated, just enough that his longing clouded affection gained control.

He bent forward, again breathing in the oil’s scent, and pressed a kiss to the back of Kadar’s neck. Kadar reached over his shoulder, cupping his hand around Malik’s head. “That feels good,” he whispered. Hearing this, the knot inside Malik loosened, and he found his lips again upon his brother’s skin. This time, urged by Kadar’s hand on his head, tugging him forward, his kiss slid around. He ran his lips along the length of Kadar’s neck, softly kissing. Kadar’s fingers in his hair tightened, and his shoulder under Malik’s hand tensed. He pulled away. Had he crossed the line between them?

“Kadar?” he said, while coming around and kneeling beside him.

His brother’s eyes, the blue now dark in the lamplight, searched him, pleading. “Don’t stop. Please? Is it more wrong than all else that has been done to me? And you love me...”

What could he say? Of course it was wrong.

But in Kadar’s mind, so completely taken apart by what happened to him, there seemed some distorted reasoning that because Malik loved him, the forbidden was acceptable. And he was right that this wrong was nothing compared to what he suffered because of hate and cruelty.

This wrong was motivated by love.

That most basic fact, like a simple revelation amidst the tangled turmoil in his heart, prompted Malik to search deeper. To understand rather than suppress. This was so far beyond the craving of flesh. The physical desire Malik could not ignore was laid upon the foundation of a lifetime of love and devotion, and arose out of the need to ease his brother’s pain and sorrow, to see him further cast off the burden of shame that Altaïr had begun helping him through. To give him peace.

Malik set aside his doubts. He would confront them later, while alone. For now, Kadar meant more to him than his own internal strife.

But putting any of these thoughts into words proved impossible. He knelt there, wishing he could convey what he felt through only their shared gaze.

Kadar took Malik’s hand in his. He rubbed gently, the oil remaining on Malik’s fingers gliding their hands together. The gesture of comfort became sensuous. Malik opened his hand, and caressed Kadar’s palm with a single fingertip, drawing slow circles. Kadar’s eyes closed, slightly and his full lips parted. Quietly aroused like this, as he had been with Altaïr, he was beautiful.

Unable to stop himself, Malik leaned closer, so their lips nearly touched. Somewhere beyond his emotional state, now enhanced by arousal, he recalled how Altaïr gave Kadar control, never pushing, showing patience. “I want you to be sure,” he said, not even sure himself. But he did not matter.

In response, Kadar closed the gap between them, touching their mouths together. His lips were soft, and yielding against Malik’s, as they had been earlier. And as then, his hand gripped hard. This time Malik did not pull away. He opened his mouth, and allowed their mutual desire to guide them.

Still on his knees, Malik slid across Kadar’s lap. He brought his arm up around Kadar’s shoulder, stroking his fingers through Kadar’s hair while they kissed, slowly.

A gentle passion, quiet and loving, and unlike anything Malik ever felt, blossomed between them. Together, touching with a tranquil innocence that belied their rising desire, they lost themselves. In his heart, he knew this was right. He would do anything to prevent Kadar from ever again feeling tainted by what he had suffered.

Kadar slid his mouth away from Malik’s, catching his breath. He lifted his face, gazing up with more love than Malik could imagine existed. His eyes shined, bright and vivid with this discovery.

Malik traced his fingertips down Kadar’s chest, pausing over the scar left from the nearly fatal wound. Then he followed with his lips, pressing them firmly, his kiss a prayer of gratitude. Under his touch, Kadar’s heart beat strong. A wave of subtle joy flowed over Malik. He lifted his mouth away from the scar, and found Kadar smiling, softly, then glancing aside.

Altaïr stared at them, the book fallen onto the floor. His blank expression would have been unreadable to any other man. But Malik saw the peace in his amber eyes, and the depth of feeling he had for both of them. His path meant he would leave and might not survive to return again. Death cared nothing for vows and honor. But for him to go, with this final barrier fallen, knowing Malik and Kadar had each other, would give him enough peace to face his battles without distraction.

Malik saw all that, and more. He also saw the desire Altaïr failed to hide now trembling his lips. So did Kadar, leaned against Malik, one hand clutching the back of Malik’s tunic. Without words, they opened their embrace, making room for Altaïr to join them.

For a few breaths, no one moved. No one spoke.

Malik wondered if they all needed a last moment to search themselves before making this irrevocable covenant with each other. Though unsure he could ever fully be at peace with their shared intimacy, he would not turn back now. For Kadar. And for Altaïr.

Finally, Altaïr shifted, taking off his tunic. Attired in only his trousers, he slid his cushions across the floor and created an expansive bed. Then he joined them.

While staring at Malik, amber eyes now fired with need, he rested his hand beneath Kadar’s chin. Then he tilted his head down, capturing Kadar’s mouth in his, kissing him firmly. Kadar moaned, digging his fingers into Malik’s back. His hand and Altaïr’s both tugged at Malik’s tunic, pulling the thin linen up, then off. Now he too wore only trousers.

All three fell together, kissing and touching and exploring. Malik remained cautious with Kadar, and noticed the same in Altaïr’s caresses. Never did his hands on Kadar’s back stray below his waist.

A brief stab of sadness separated Malik from the moment. Kadar’s trauma brought them together. Despite the passion and contentment Altaïr gave to his life, the cost had been too great. Malik would rather be alone than for his brother to have endured such suffering. As if reading his thoughts, Kadar lifted his mouth from Altaïr’s neck. He smiled at Malik, a shy, sweet smile, then leaned forward, lips touching Malik’s ear. Between soft kisses, he whispered, “He loves you. We both do.”

Malik found Altaïr’s eyes on him, perhaps affirming what neither of them could ever say to each other. While Kadar continued his gentle attention to Malik’s ear, then neck, Altaïr pulled Malik’s mouth to his. They quickly lost themselves in each other’s kiss, passion intensifying into an aggressive show of mutual desire. Kadar sensed the shift, and sat back, releasing his touch from them both. But a furtive glance told Malik his brother was content watching, at least for that moment.

Kadar lay on the cushions, his back propped upright, watching them entwined, hands tugging down trousers, grasping each others’ erections. He too slid his trousers off, never taking his eyes from them.

Altaïr tore his mouth from Malik’s, and leaned over. “Tell me what you want Kadar.”

Eyes bright, he licked his lips. “To watch you both.”

“And for you?” Altaïr prompted.

“Your mouth Altaïr.” He slid his hand over his erection, shyly glancing at Malik. It seemed even with their agreed consent, their blood tie still created a hint of self-consciousness.

Altaïr crawled from Malik into Kadar’s arms. “We will give you what you want. But you know to stop us at any time?”

“I do,” Kadar answered, licking his fingers, then reaching for Altaïr’s erection. In that deliberate action, Malik knew Kadar was ready for this. They all were ready. Beyond ready.

The following moments blurred in Malik’s head. Touching, still gently, and with care for Kadar’s limitations. Oil spilled, rubbed over hands and muscles, and fingers stroking. Malik focused his attentions on Altaïr, and Kadar followed, as if neither of them wanted to step over the final boundary by touching each other beyond their passionate kisses. This gave Malik some sense of relief, that although they had become intimate, they respected their shared blood. And Altaïr willingly allowed them his body as substitute for each other.

As Malik plunged into Altaïr, hand clamped onto his hip, pulling and pushing, fighting not to lose control, he found Kadar lying back, watching him. Though they shared no physical contact, they were joined together by Altaïr, connected. Malik buried deep inside Altaïr, and Altaïr on his knees taking all of Kadar into his mouth.

Kadar dug the fingers of one hand into Altaïr’s short hair, clutching at it, following Altaïr’s motion. But his eyes focused solely on Malik.

Seeing his brother like this, feeling no pain, only pleasure, ripped away the last of Malik’s control. He pumped faster, driving Altaïr’s mouth deeper onto Kadar, watching Kadar’s fingers clench in Altaïr’s hair. Those blue eyes were now glazed over with pleasure as Altaïr moaned, sucking him.

Together, Malik and Kadar matched their thrusts, until each cried out, lost deep inside Altaïr, finding their pleasure, their orgasms rising, then crashing through them both.

Collapsed between them, Altaïr lay with his face on Kadar’s thigh, gasping for breath, his lips glistening. He rolled onto his back. His fingers encircled his rigid cock, left untouched while he gave himself to Malik and Kadar both.

Though enjoying the haze of bliss after his climax, Malik could not allow Altaïr to pleasure himself. Not after that selfless act of giving. Kadar clearly thought the same, already shifting onto his side, then crawling down, meeting Malik at Altaïr’s waist.

They dragged their tongues along the length of Altaïr’s cock. At the tip, they paused, eyes glancing from him to each other’s mouth. Despite their attentions on Altaïr, they kissed, lips crushing, tongues meeting, both moaning.

“Almost... I’m almost there,” Altaïr gasped. His hand twisted in Malik’s hair, pulling away from his brother’s kiss, then shoving his mouth back down onto his erection.

Malik took all of him, opening his throat, knowing Altaïr would soon lose control. And Kadar helped, caressing Altaïr’s thighs with one hand, while running his tongue between Altaïr’s legs. The other hand he clutched around Malik’s arm, holding on tightly.

Together, they licked and teased, and brought Altaïr to the edge.

Altaïr lifted from the cushions, arching his back, then thrusting hard into Malik’s mouth, moaning and shuddering as he too came.

While Altaïr lay there, spent, eyes shut, Kadar closed his fingers around Malik’s neck, pulling them together. They kissed, sharing the taste of Altaïr still lingering in Malik’s mouth. Then together they stretched out on the cushions. Altaïr opened his arms, accepting them both into his embrace. Kadar threaded his fingers through Malik’s, gently holding his hand, while they each lay tight against Altaïr, their heads pillowed by his shoulders.

Malik forbade any thoughts of tomorrow. This, right now, was all that mattered. He had his brother, returned alive, and though not well, at least healing.

And he had that which he never expected in his life. A man who could see through him to what he hid from the world, and still wanted him. A man his equal, a man he respected. A man he trusted with his life, his brother, and his heart. In Altaïr, Malik had gained more than a lover.

He tightened his hand in Kadar’s, and touched a kiss to Altaïr’s ear, knowing this would always be home.

Entwined, all three rested, at ease, wrapped in the contentment of their shared embrace.

Kadar’s whisper parted the comfortable silence. “You have both given me heaven. Here, lying like this, I am at peace.”

  
#

Epilogue  
Cyprus

  
The many years of responsibility weighed heavy upon Altaïr. But here in this quiet place overlooking the azure sea, he always found refuge.

Just as the years had not been easy for him, nor were they easy for Kadar. The damage his mind suffered proved permanent. He spent days here on the terrace, in the sun, staring out at the sea. Not quite in this world. Not upset, nor agitated. Simply not all there.

But when he returned fully, smiling and the light in his blue eyes, Altaïr would sometimes take him into his arms and make love to him. Never entering him, for those mental wounds never healed. But that mattered not to Altaïr. He loved Kadar gently, with his hands and his mouth, and his heart. And he found his own pleasure simply by giving this.

Often Malik joined them. Altaïr thought maybe these were the only times Malik was intimate with his brother. When all three cast aside their fears and allowed themselves to love fully and without limits.

Other times Altaïr and Malik would set aside the burdens of their work and spend long, sultry nights in bed together. Just the two of them.

Maria knew. How could she not? Malik and Kadar were as much a part of Altaïr’s life as she and their sons. All bonds of the heart. Different though. With Malik and Kadar he shared brotherhood. Ties that ran deep. History shared. Promises made. Vows honored.

As he cast his eyes over the sea and the setting sun, he felt a hand rest firm upon his shoulder. He reached up and entwined his fingers with Malik’s.

“He’s asleep?”

“Yes.” Malik leaned against him, their bodies now supporting each other, hands still clasped. “He is always so peaceful when you are here.”

“As am I,” Altaïr whispered, his fingers tightening. “This place... It is beautiful.”

They watched the sun sink into the sea. Safe and at peace. Together.

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